


Time Stops

by cytara



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Book Canon References, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, First Time, Forced Marriage, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Inspired by Outlander, Jaime is the himbo we all love and deserve, Mystery, Pining, Plot, Sexual Discovery, Show Canon References, Slow Burn, Smut, Song references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:22:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 58
Words: 119,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22211722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cytara/pseuds/cytara
Summary: A famous musician with a troubled past, Jaime Lannister is transported to the year 299. He knows no one, but everyone knows him. The Kingslayer. Between the War of the Five Kings and the people he meets along the way, he struggles to find a way back home and he discovers the lion from within.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 435
Kudos: 239





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work is inspired by Outlander and has no Outlander spoilers.
> 
> This story is Jaime POV only, where modern Jaime is thrown into historic Westeros. What could go wrong? Read to find out! 
> 
> Thank you so, so much for this [amazing fanart](https://i.imgur.com/MzePP3l.jpg), Ro_Nordmann!! :D 
> 
> This story has several plotlines, but don’t worry, Braime all the way. I apologize for all the Jaime asshole-ness, but I try to keep everyone in character. I use a mixture of book and show phrases, plot points and characters, but a decent amount of plot is new. Due to more source material from the show (goddammit), the later part of this story follows show plot, not the book, ie no Stoneheart. This story covers S2 - S8, so buckle up.
> 
> Every chapter contains a reference to a song in lyrical form, since Jaime is a musician. I’m a newbie at poetry, so I’ve sourced the lyrics from actual songs. In my mind, Jaime thinks of relevant lyrics, whether they are written by him or another artist.
> 
> Addiction Warning: This work references previous opioid use, recovery and sobriety. My goal is to keep references mindful and hopeful. If you have specific questions, message me on Tumblr: Cytarabi

A descending chromatic scale devoid of harmony, Jaime spiraled down, not unlike the unmistakable taste of euphoria. His entire body lurched, and his organs twisted and sank within him, as if he sat in a plane dropping to its demise. When his eyes opened, he expected a dark world after death, but he stared at the same weirwood tree he had just touched. Yet, it felt like he traveled far away.

Jaime blinked.

He blacked out many times before, but never like this. Jaime inhaled, half expecting no more air in the world to breathe. _Am I dreaming?_ His heart pounded, unsure of what just happened. His eyes told him nothing happened. Jaime clenched his fists full of the grass beneath him before sitting up. Breeze washed over him and blanketed him with an unexpected chill. This fucking place was worse than he thought.

Jaime stood and glanced around him. Hidden photographers tried embarrassing him before, and he expected more of them. He had enough bad press. As much as he tried to pretend he didn’t care what people thought of him, in actuality, he cared a great deal. Upon scanning the desolate tip of the island, he remained alone. Jaime regretted sneaking onto the sacred island in the first place— just to see _her_. She wasn’t there. She likely wasn’t ever there. _How so very like you. Did you stand me up?_ The mere thought of _her_ left him longing. Often, lyrics floated through his head: 

_You’d never worry about what I’d do  
I’d be coming home back to you_

Jaime dusted off his suit trousers and pulled out his mobile phone. He needed to call _her_. He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help himself. Jaime scoffed and tapped her number while he ran his other hand through his short blond hair. Eerie silence stole away his hopes— not even a dial tone. _No service?_ Goosebumps waved up his arms, and Jaime bit his lip at the unexpected weather. Summer wasn’t supposed to be _this_ cold. His brother, also his band manager, neglected to prepare Jaime for the unexpected weather in Brynland, where his band toured for a couple weeks.

Frustrated and annoyed, Jaime’s jaw tensed while he stomped over towards the edge of the island, seeking out the young man and motorboat who helped Jaime step onto the Isle of Faces for this secret, foolish mission. Jaime found no man, nor motorboat— just a wooden boat with a useless matching paddle. Jaime let out a single pathetic laugh. _Who is pranking me here? That strange woman who tricked me into coming here... or you?_ He needed to prove whomever wrong.

His home for the night, a hotel and tourist spot for the Gods Eye lake, rested on the river, which lay on the south side of the lake. Unfortunately, for him, Jaime stood on the quiet and rural northern end. Only faces etched into weirwoods observed him. Jaime tapped his foot on the ground, crushing and breaking the delicate grass beneath him. When choosing between waiting for some nut with a camera finding him or rescuing himself, Jaime chose the latter. Nothing scared the man of action, not even death.

Squinting north, Harrenhal’s ruin cluttered the sky— the infamous haunted castle of Westeros, rumored to have ghosts and misfortune. Ghosts didn’t bother him, as they didn’t exist. Instead, he feared visiting his father, losing his lover and giving into relapse. Jaime grumbled while he stepped into the small boat. With awkward hands, he clasped the paddle and pushed himself into the lake. Still as a painting, he drifted away from the faced weirwoods. 

Angry, Jaime paddled towards Harrenhal. His skin sweated with exertion. He hated ghost towns and the stupid tourists who fell into their capitalist trap. It reminded Jaime of all the people who manipulated his fame as a musician. Jaime wanted to throw up at the thought of taking a taxi, but he had little choice, since needed to pay for a quick ride down the lake. 

Jaime glanced back towards the Isle of Faces. Fuller and more lush than he remembered, it appeared different. Almost as if it grew more trees than when he arrived, not even an hour earlier. _Impossible._ Jaime scowled as he remembered the mysterious stranger... Earlier that day, she promised him that his lover would be waiting at the north weirwood. She wore an old blue dress, covered in a dark black cloak. She lied to him. Jaime regretted believing the strange woman. Tyrion, his brother, would label him a desperate fool. _Tyrion would be right._

As he paddled alone, he dreaded his upcoming interview. Tyrion warned him about the pushy interviewer. Jaime’s love life, reckless behavior and past became typical hot topics, despite being off limits. Those stories gathered countless clicks and buzz on social media. It took Jaime an infinite amount of willpower to smile through unfair questions. _“How has recovery been? Did you attend her wedding? Were you ever really dating in the first place? Do you miss her? Do you have any words for the family in the car accident?”_ Jaime winced, clenching his fists again as an attempt to empower himself. He could never escape his past. He pulled out his phone to glance at the time, noting that time never stopped— still no service. His boat rammed into a floating log, which jolted Jaime. He lost grip on his phone, watching it bounce out of his hand and into the water, sinking as fast as a rock. _Shit!_

Public relation nightmares flooded through his head: naked pictures, celebrity phone numbers— he couldn’t let anyone else get his phone! Jaime dove in after it, submersing himself into cold, dark depths of the lake. Chill crept through his ears. Frantic bubbles danced to the surface, until his breath ran out, forcing him to rise. _I’ll die if I keep trying._ Jaime retreated, flopping onto the boat while he heaved for air. His shoes: ruined. His drenched trousers and white dress shirt clung tightly to him, reminding him how unbelievably stupid he was to go to the hidden part of the Isle of Faces… alone. _I can buy new phones, new shoes, but if father catches wind of this..._ Water droplets flew off his face and hair as he shook his head. _Just hire a diver. No big deal._ His temperature, however, was a big deal. Iciness around him refused to relent, so he paddled harder and faster. _They’ll help me at Harrenhal. Warm blankets. Hot coffee. A taxi. A limo, if I’m lucky. A fan will find me._

Time continued, and he paddled up to the shore of Harrenhal. With a clumsy exit, Jaime wobbled out of the boat as his skin tightened into frigid goosebumps. Jaime rubbed his arms, feeling numbness stretch through his fingers. His hands created famous music and they were everything to him. He couldn’t wait to warm his hands, either by stringing his stress away plucking at a guitar or losing himself with a piano. Naturally talented at what he put his mind to, Jaime chose music. As a child, his father paid for private piano lessons, likely to show off his favorite son to his rich friends. Jaime kept learning, preferring to create music rather than read. He learned the piano first, then guitar. Jaime never forgot the look on his father’s face when he joined a group of teenage classmates to play music for a talent show. Almost everyone in the auditorium loved it... except his father. He probably knew Jaime wouldn’t give up music, and Jaime never did. He refused college, business, politics and studies abroad. It didn’t take long for Jaime’s band to get a record label, album, hit or music video. The rest was history. A painful history.

His eyes searched around, seeing no one in sight. _Odd._ Instinct drove him forward to the closest structure: a small wooden shed located near rundown docks. Jaime observed the old, rusty antique metal hinges and large nails jetting out of porch. _How have they not been sued for this?_ Jaime’s eyebrows furrowed in concern as he dodged the danger, probably saturated with disease. He opened the door with caution.

In front of him rested a workbench and a bed, but no one was inside. Smells of old, wet rotten wood filled his lungs. Jaime stepped towards large wool and fur blankets. Without thinking, he pulled, unraveling a skeleton underneath. Bones rolled and clanked together. Shocked, Jaime leapt backwards. _Well, you get an A+ for set design._ Jaime chuckled his fear away, curious how they managed to create such a real looking set of bones.

Shivers ran through him, due to his soaked clothing. Harrenhal wouldn’t mind if he borrowed their blankets, in fact, they could even make a great story about it. _We saved Jaime Lannister from a freak accident. Karma?_ Jaime shook his head, hoping they’d leave the skeleton scare out of the tabloids.

Jaime undressed, with the exception of his briefs, socks and shoes. _What if they have cameras watching? This could be a prank._ He closed the stiff, crusty blanket around himself, wrapping it around his back and shoulders before he tucked remaining fabric against his chest. Out of his wet clothes and in dry blankets, he felt better in an instant. Although, the fake skeleton bothered him. He needed to find someone alive— not dead... or fake.

Jaime looked up at Harrenhal’s walls. Banners hung from stone: crimson red with a golden lion sigil in the middle. Deja vu distracted him. 

With no door in sight, Jaime walked west. _I’ll find a road before I know it._ He walked for what felt like miles. No cars, no roads, no people. Only tall trees, endless forest and cawing birds. Until... he heard a large twig snap to his left.

Jaime turned his head, noticing a black cloaked woman run away from him. Long, curly black hair ran down her back, and a flash of blue dress peeked below the hemline. She looked just like the woman who told him about the meeting place on the Isle of Faces. _That’s that woman!_ Furious in an instant, Jaime judged her responsible, guilty, and corrupt. He stormed after the unnamed woman. He shouted after her, “Stop!”


	2. Chapter 2

“Stop!”

She refused. Jaime ran after her, holding the wool and fur around him while he tracked her through the forest. His untied laces and soaked shoes slowed him down, so he kicked them off and jogged in socks. He needed to catch her. _I would torture you, if no one would find out._ She told him his love would be waiting for him— he _believed_ her. This woman tricked him, forcing him into a world of misery.

Jaime crossed a dirt road. Not a typical asphalt road, not a sidewalk— dirt. Jaime looked down, noticing his socks torn into shreds on his aching feet. By the time he glanced back to his goal, she was gone. _Where did you go?_ Jaime listened for any sound of her, and instead, heard horses running. 

Jaime caught his breath and hunkered the blankets around him, trying his best to cover his body. He looked like a fool, but felt like a millionaire to see someone— anyone that could help. As they rode to greet him, he knew at any moment, they would recognize Jaime Lannister: good musician gone bad. _Nothing a fresh smile can’t fix._ Handsome people escaped with near anything, including murder… Jaime knew from experience.

Jaime prepared his fake bashful smile. The riders dressed in odd, _old_ outfits. Jaime’s grin disappeared when he saw sheathed swords and other peculiar objects around their saddles. _A bunch of actors, likely with an ego bigger than mine. Great._ Dressed in bizarre designs, Jaime cocked his head to the side to get a better look, bold enough to show his disgust to the actors. Creepy decorations adorned their costumes: yellow eyes surrounded by a circle and complemented with black dragons. The outfit looked… medieval. _I’m on a film set. Explains the lack of people._ Nothing explained the lack of security or the damn woman, but at least actors would understand his trouble to keep everything quiet. _A shame I don’t recognize you._

Jaime let out a sigh and smiled again, looking down and wondering how long it would take them to recognize him. His band played all over Westeros for over ten years. They even played at the largest sport convention on the continent. Jaime may have appeared odd with wet hair and old blankets to cover himself, but his face was the most recognized face of music— he was legendary.

“What’s your business here?” the lead man asked, still straddling his horse with a firm frown. Why none of them dismounted to help Jaime irritated him. The man’s question also bothered Jaime, like the man wanted to play a game. Usually, people asked for an annoying autograph or stupid selfie first.

Giving them the benefit of the doubt, Jaime guessed they didn’t recognize him... yet. Fair enough, he might have appeared like a good looking homeless man. He decided to jog their memory by singing a popular, vintage Westeros song:

_“I have a mansion  
forget the price   
Haven’t been there  
they tell me it’s nice.”_

The man frowned down at him in awkward silence. Jaime glared back, noting the huge, dark birthmark on his otherwise attractive face. _Remember to learn whoever did his makeup, because this work is atrocious._ It distracted him and Jaime hated distractions. Annoyed at their silence, Jaime said, “I hope your acting is better than that fake birthmark.”

The man scowled, though sad looks suited him. He looked perfect for as a melancholy knight. Ignoring Jaime, the man asked, “Who do you fight for?” 

“Where is the nearest trailer or director? I need to get to God’s Eye Inn—” Jaime asked as he reached to pull out a phone he didn’t have. Only a little embarrassed, Jaime continued, “as fast as possible. I missed an interview, I’m sure you boys would understand.”

The men showed their confusion in their eyes, but laughed as a group when Jaime uttered the word ‘boys’. A quiet teenager in the back of the group said, “Callin’ us boys and you’re wearin’ that?”

The birthmarked man raised a hand, signaling his companions to stop. His horse moved underneath him until the man jabbed his heel into the horse’s chest. The horse reared its head back, forced its ears forward and remained still.

The lack of recognition crawled under Jaime’s skin. “Come on, don’t you know who I am? Help me out,” Jaime said, not sure what other tactics to try.

“No—” one older man said, walking his horse up to the leading man, “Ser Karyl, is that—”

“The Kingslayer,” Karyl said, with hate evident in his tone.

_King what?_ Jaime frowned as the men behind Karyl started chuckling again. Karyl made no attempt to stop them. Jaime accrued several cruel nicknames over his lengthy musician career, but Kingslayer sounded new and foreign. _When will you assholes stop acting?_

Karyl dismounted his scared horse. “It’s been a long time, Ser Jaime.” As if it were possible, the man held more animosity towards Jaime than moments before. 

Jaime stepped backwards, convinced these men wanted to play a joke on him. As Karyl walked forward, the men stopped whispering to each other and shouted to look ahead. Similarly dressed men with the same large red banner from Harrenhal trotted to the group. Jaime peered around, half expecting a camera crew or a drone in the sky. 

“State your business with the Lannisters,” one of the new men shouted, ignoring Jaime, who stood between them.

Lannisters, as in more than one. _Tyrion is in on this?_ Jaime’s heart dropped, wondering if these men had been hired to play an elaborate prank on him. Tension swirled around him like a musical and unpredictable syncopation. _When will you stop pretending?_ Jaime almost felt compelled to start pretending with them. 

“Why don’t you tell Lord Tywin he left his precious Kingslayer loose,” Karyl said to the men dressed in red armor. 

_Lord Tywin? My father is in on this prank?_

Men cackled before one of them said, “Jaime Lannister is dead. Didn’t your wet nurse tell you?”

Jaime whirled around, offended by their lines that spoke a word of his death. This entire scene had reached too far for Jaime. “I’m right here, you ugly piece of chewed up toffee!” 

Deserving the insult, the man's smirk turned into shock, followed by a look as if he saw a ghost. _Damn, their acting is pretty good._ Jaime continued to glare as the man’s mouth quivered. Three men behind him placed their right hands on their hips and pulled out swords, ready to fight.

“Go tell Lord Tywin, now!” someone said. A man twirled his horse around and galloped back the way they came.

Jaime froze. One of Karyl’s men galloped to follow. As the sound of hooves disappeared, Jaime heard swords sing. Jaime scanned around for cameras again and saw none. Three against three, Jaime stepped aside, stumbling on his own sore feet while Karyl’s horse spooked at the glimmering light bouncing off the blades. The fight began, metal on metal. Jaime watched in wonder, mesmerized they managed to create their own fake sweat beading across their forehead. The quarrel passed off as authentic, even entertaining— until the Karyl character jammed his sword deep into his opponent’s eye. Jaime watched in horror as the blade carved through the man’s skull and poked out through his dark hair with the faintest wet shimmer of blood. The man’s body fell limp, kneeling and falling until Karyl withdrew his blade. Sounds of crumbling bone and flesh echoed through Jaime’s ears. Pooling in his own blood, the man lay face down.

This was real.

While Jaime panicked, Karyl defeated another and another. Jaime struggled to breathe. These men meant to kidnap him, ransom him, kill him— he wasn’t sure. Shocked and terrified, Jaime clenched his fists. 

As the last of Karyl’s men returned on his horse, covered in blood, Jaime opened his mouth, but lost his usual charming words. Karyl stepped towards him, holding his sword out as if he would give Jaime the same fate he gave those men: death. Jaime let go of the wool and fur blankets, holding both of his hands up in surrender while Karyl smirked. Jaime thought of no snide remarks and only felt fear, something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Interviews, chills, opioids, _her_... everything worthwhile abandoned his mind. Only survival remained. Karyl sheathed his sword, and while Jaime inhaled a deep breath, Karyl reached forward and wrapped an old sack over Jaime’s head, bringing darkness along with it.


	3. Chapter 3

Captured, they dressed him in rags and tied him to some stiff, smelly man who coughed more than he breathed. His mind, unlike his tied hands, raced through fantasies of revenge. Jaime could afford excellent lawyers, even if Brynland wasn’t his home country. At the very least, Jaime’s father, a feared politician, could rescue him from anywhere in Westeros. These men were fools. Having the upper hand, Jaime tried yelling and annoying his captors to let him free… but they gagged him. Jaime couldn’t see anything with the bag over his head. He heard almost nothing either, as they spoke in muffled whispers or failed to speak at all. Time passed in unknown quantities, with the exception of night, when he could hear crickets chirping in the distance. They only lifted the bag to give him water and food once and left him alone for the night, tied up to a tree. Miserable, sore, and thirsty, Jaime starved in the morning. They offered the same quiet routine: dried meats and water once before blinding him, gagging him and throwing him on a horse for a day’s ride. Capture continued for five days. Jaime counted. 

They must have outran cops by camping in rural national parks next to Harrenhal. _That’s the only way this makes sense._ Jaime spent his solitary time daydreaming of their deaths or fucking _her_.

When his bag came off for more than a minute, night flooded his eyes. The group of men tossed him into a cell resting on cold, wet mud. Jaime saw his breath in chilled air while rusting iron chains clasped around his wrists. _Food… water._ Jaime whirled his head around, hoping everything to be a haunting nightmare. It wasn’t. Jaime slumped to the ground as far away as he could from the annoying, snoring man who slept in the mud across from him. Surrounded by a large wooden cell in the middle of... somewhere, Jaime saw nothing useful in the dark. Distant chatter and fires distracted him. _Where are the street lights?_ Upon strained eyes, he struggled to see his kidnappers. _Only idiots would keep me in a wooden cage in the open like this._ Jaime figured he had been captured by some strange cult. _Where the fuck am I?!_

Behind him, Jaime heard flickering flames before he saw them, which reminded him of every concert he performed. He always heard the crowd before he saw people. Jaime turned, confronted by light that danced in his eyes. Like a clumsy moth, Jaime stumbled towards the brightness. _A torch? Definitely a cult._ Much to his disappointment, the mysterious woman from the God’s Eye Inn held the torch. Dressed in the same long cloak and blue dress, she stood outside the cell and peered inside. Jaime reached through a cell opening to grab her. She withdrew, standing away from his desperate, vicious hands. While anger consumed him, she did not fear him. Jaime shook the frigid wooden cell wall, bursting at the seams with hate. Without fear of his animalistic anger, the woman signaled him to keep quiet with her finger on her lips. Jaime narrowed his eyes, confused.

“Remember,” she said, “your past becomes your future. Your love awaits you at the northern weirwood.”

The same damn words she told him at God’s Eye Inn. She said them again as if he hadn’t listened to her before. _Lying piece of shit. Useless. I’m stuck in a primitive wooden box. You think I’m falling for this again?_ Jaime’s muscles tensed, sore from endless shivers. _You’ll pay for this._ She possessed enough audacity to kidnap Jaime Lannister, one of the most well known faces and names in Westeros. _Someone will recognize me and you will rot away in prison._ Even in Brynland, the fishiest country in Westeros, adoring fans stopped Jaime left and right for pictures or autographs. This woman fooled him at the God’s Eye Inn by _not_ asking for pictures or an autograph. Instead of crazed fan, this woman was quiet, confident and perceptive, like she knew something he didn’t. Jaime shook his head. His love was never at the weirwood. She lied to him. _Your love awaits you at the northern weirwood, again. Stop lying to me._

“You will kill something you’ve lost, marry the Queen, but wear no crown,” she said.

“Fuck you, you little—”

“You will make music that brings tears to your eyes. You will return home.”

Jaime stared. She sounded more like a crappy fortune teller than a kidnapper. Before he could think of a smart quip or persuade her to let him go, she walked away with a confident and graceful stride. 

Flustered, Jaime stood alone. "How much money do you want?!” 

“A true Lannister,” a man said behind Jaime. Alarmed, Jaime pivoted around as a man groaned awake with cynical chuckles. The nameless man lifted himself to sitting and rubbed his large chin. _The Seven Hells you know about being a Lannister._ Appearing muscular and miserable, the man possessed some spirit, despite sharing a cell in the middle of nowhere. Jaime failed to understand why this man remained chained up with him. This man didn’t look like an actor, musician or anyone famous. Jaime would have known him. 

“Best not to listen to a woods witch, she’ll turn you into a goat,” the man said.

Jaime frowned, observing as the man stood, proving as tall as himself. Quietness returned, except distant coughs and working men around their cell. Jaime peered with limited vision. Almost like a makeshift village, they rested between endless tents and an… army. _Is Brynland at war? No idiot would camp in the middle of a field._

The man walked over from the other side of the large cell, holding out a wooden slab with white bread. Hungry, Jaime snatched the bread. Stiff, stale and brittle bread crumbled in his fingers. _Disgusting._ The man studied Jaime with surprised eyes. “It really is you, coz. You’re not a ghost.” 

Jaime frowned in confusion. 

The man forced a small chuckle and said, “By that look, you don’t remember me. I’ve grown. Ser Daven Lannister. I was just a young lad when you— well, we thought the Stranger took you. I’m Ser Stafford’s son, Seven rest his soul.”

Jaime nodded, playing along with whatever historical story this… Daven made up. People tried pretending they were Jaime’s family before to share fortunes. This man also reminded Jaime of interesting and delusional people he met at rehab. Jaime squinted and gave the man a closer look. _You do look related, I’ll give you that._ Lighter eyes, golden hair, fair complexion. Jaime never remembered a Daven or Stafford in his family. He never met any cousins named Daven or an uncle from either side of his family. The Stranger never _took_ Jaime— he was very much alive. In fact, no one used the words “the Stranger” anymore. _A rumor, that’s all._ This man appeared in his late twenties, but his short beard and ruggedness might have added more years than he deserved. _Wait, if he was a child when he thought I died—_ Jaime would have been a teenager... before he was famous. Nothing added up, and it only confused Jaime more.

“Cersei will be happy to see you, I am sure of it, if you haven’t seen her already,” Daven said with a sad voice.

Cersei. Jaime’s cheek twitched while his eyes flickered. He hadn’t heard that name in what seemed like forever. _Did I already die and I’m in one of the Seven Hells?_

“Where in Seven Hells have you been all this time?” Daven asked.

Daven’s words obscured reality. Jaime’s heart raced as he reached down to pinch his left hand between his right hand’s fingers. If someone drugged him— or if he somehow slipped up and ingested pills, it would feel different. If he existed in a dream, it would feel different. Jaime pinched his own skin until he bruised himself, feeling every screaming nerve. He would know if he relapsed… He wouldn’t feel anything.

“Around,” Jaime replied after a long pause, feeling uncomfortable at the man’s interrogating eyes. “Where are we, right now?” Jaime asked, wanting to change subjects. 

“Just outside Riverrun.”

“Not close enough, I can’t see it at all,” Jaime said, standing on his blistered tiptoes as if he could see large city lights. Riverrun was the largest city in Brynland, so surely, they were in a park outside suburbs. Fans lived in suburbs. Never in a million years did Jaime look forward to swarms of fans— until now.

“You’re looking right at it, Ser Jaime.”

Ser. Such an old sounding title and it sounded nice. Jaime smirked, feeling like himself for a moment. _No, that’s not Riverrun._ In front of him, beyond endless tents and darkness of trees, he saw small torches in the far distance on a castle, rising into the night sky until he could see the stars: millions of breathtaking stars. Jaime’s eyes searched upwards and upwards, witnessing countless glows and constellations sprinkling above him. The King’s Crown constellation had never been so vibrant before. The Stallion had a longer, fuller tail that even pictures couldn’t do justice. Lights in the sky winked at him. He watched the stars twinkle just like his mother said they would during her nightly lullabies, before she passed away. In confusion and awe, he strained to understand what he saw above him. Westeros wouldn’t be able to see so many stars. Dozens of constellations, some Jaime could even name and trace in his mind. Jaime witnessed more stars than he ever saw in his entire life and the truth haunted him.

“Daven?”

“Yes, coz?”

“This might seem like a strange question. What year is it?”

“Two hundred and ninety nine, ser.”

A single laugh escaped Jaime, and he glanced over to Daven, who opposed his amused character. Daven sighed, turning away to sit back down. Meanwhile, Jaime considered believing the woman drugged him. _How is this fucking possible?_ Jaime laughed again. He didn’t believe in magic. Only lunatics did.

_Oh let the sun beat down on my face  
I’m a traveler of both time and space._

Jaime remembered, as a child, when an archaeologist found the first dragon bones. It was shattered into pieces under Ashlanding, the capital of Crownsland. His father always told him dragons never existed, and yet, someone found proof they did. Magic was no longer magic, but reality. Flying beasts that breathed fire. Despite the cold, Jaime sweat at the thought of powerful dragons. Archaeologists believed they went extinct after the destruction of Ashlanding, many hundreds of years ago. _Well, maybe not so long ago at all. If a few people thought dragons existed, who’s to say a magical weirwood couldn’t send someone back in time?_ Perhaps that witch woman sent him back in time as a joke. It wasn’t funny.

Inhaling a breath, Jaime closed his eyes in thought. Assuming this silly thought was reality, he knew almost nothing about this part of history. Memorizing names, years and events were pointless to him in his youth. Now, in his mid thirties, he regretted it. He only remembered learning about plagues, fighting and exploring undiscovered land. Even more odd than time travel, he seemed to be transported into another Jaime Lannister’s world. A world where Jaime died… And people recognized him. He replaced another Jaime Lannister. A dead Jaime Lannister. _Look on the bright side, at least no one here knows about the drugs or car accident._

“Not knowing the year is likely not the worst of your troubles,” Daven said. He scratched his arm. “We’re stuck amongst puppies. I can’t wait to sink my teeth into…” Daven trailed off into his own thoughts. 

“I’m sorry, who has us?” Jaime asked, curious who wanted to capture him and his… cousin.

“Robb Stark, the young puppy still sucking off his mom’s fishy teat.”

_Gods, no wonder why men couldn’t get laid back then._ Jaime forced a weak smile, nodding as if he knew the name. He didn’t.

“I’d love to talk more, coz, but enemies approach,” Daven whispered.

Jaime followed Daven’s gaze to the edge of the cell. More torches illuminated a cloaked, well postured woman and a tall armored man.

“You look older, Ser Jaime,” she said. The woman stared daggers at Jaime and Daven, unmoved, yet with pain in her face. “What a coward you are, after all you’ve done. It shows.”

Insulted and brought to anger, Jaime walked towards the woman and said, “And you look like something I drew with my left hand.” 

In a swift movement, the woman picked up a rock and smashed it across Jaime’s face. Jaime wobbled to his knees, dizzy from the impact. Blood trickled down his forehead while he breathed for more strength. _What in Seven Hells was that for?_ Through gritted teeth, Jaime said, “I do like a violent woman.” Behind the woman, the armored man pulled out his sword. Time stood still. _These people will kill me._ Jaime let out a breath, glaring up at the unknown woman with her damn rock. Jaime teased with his usual charm, despite not being interested in her, “But you look lonely. Maybe you’re not as violent as I thought, given that you’re threatening me with this man’s sword. Hit me with a sword next time instead of a rock, I’ll go quicker that way.”

The woman lifted her chin, revealing her resentment. “She is a truer knight than you will ever be, _Kingslayer._ ”

“That’s a woman?!” Jaime said, straining through the flickering light to view the tall figure. _No._ The armored woman, not a man, towered over the older woman with broad enough shoulders to line two women along the length of her. Even in the dark, her features mismatched. She reminded him of the girls he used to make fun of as a child. Jaime grimaced as he felt uncomfortable staring at her young, yet chaotic face. He stared long enough at it. Jaime let out a single laugh. “Did you find her from the future? Or maybe she was a man and got her sex changed?”

Daven chuckled. 

_It’s a serious question! Maybe a little bit of a joke._

“Full of words, you are. But do you remember? I am Catelyn Stark, widow of Eddard Stark and mother of the King in the North, Robb Stark. He was just a babe when you killed Aerys Targaryen.”

Jaime smiled and shook his head. _Great, they do think I’ve killed someone. Of course._ Jaime knew the Targaryen name, one of the deadliest names in history. Some dragon queen burned Ashlanding into… well, ash. Jaime shrugged. “Wouldn’t you do the same to a Targaryen?” 

“You swore a vow. He wasn’t yours to kill,” Catelyn said, as Jaime grew more agitated.

“I’m not yours to kill either,” Jaime said.

Catelyn paused, shifting her weight on her feet that sank into the mud. “I wish Ned was alive to see you. The Lannisters wrongly accused him for your death for years. Your entire family is why this war started. An entire lie. Several lies.”

“Careful,” Daven chimed in. Jaime glanced back, recognizing the man as his true blood for the first time.

Catelyn ignored Daven and continued, “You ran away and came back just when your family is losing this war. Disgraceful.”

Jaime opened his mouth to defend himself, unable to think of anything. _How can I defend myself when it’s not me?_ Feeling uncomfortable, Jaime pursed his lips together in a fine line. _They won’t believe me. I don’t believe myself._

“Not only did you run away, but you were found naked outside of Harrenhal,” Catelyn said. _Now that part is simply exaggerated._ “And you’re a coward. A kingslayer and deserter. Where have you been all these years?”

It bothered Jaime when people disliked him, and even in the past, everyone despised him. _Nothing I haven’t lived through._ Jaime smirked, preferring to answer with another question. He asked, “Where is the farthest place you can imagine?”

Catelyn turned softer, but her gaze remained serious. 

Daven replied for her, “Asshai?”

“I’ve been there, even further,” Jaime said while he earned shocked gasps around him. Jaime grinned. A large coastal city in modern times, Asshai fought for independence from its oppressive regime. Jaime remembered being banned from playing a concert in Asshai, only because Jaime sympathized with a peaceful opposition leader. Jaime despised politics: a family trait he refused to inherit. However, in Westeros Middle Ages, politics meant everything and Jaime knew nothing. _Father would say politics always matters, no matter the time. I guess he’s right again._

“Perhaps you had a reason to leave,” Catelyn said. Her cold, stern eyes settled on Jaime. Daven cleared his throat while he jostled his chains. No reason or word was spoken, but Jaime identified everyone’s tense body language. Even the torch sounded like a guitar tremelo, building into a stressful song Jaime failed to understand. 

“Why come back?” Catelyn asked Jaime. The armored beast behind her glared at Daven.

Jaime smiled. “Oh, I won’t be here long.”


	4. Chapter 4

Jaime didn’t sleep well. Daven dozed on and off with occasional glances around him. Guards patrolled around their cell, so they didn’t talk. It gave Jaime time to think, but he itched to speak. _Is it nighttime at home... right now?_ Jaime gazed at the stars, pondering who missed him. Tyrion. _Father is looking for me. He won’t find me._ Likely, news made a huge deal of his disappearance. _'Jaime Lannister missing in Brynland, likely overdosed and dead in a drug house. Karma?'_ Jaime scratched growing guilt on his neck. He needed to get home and set things right. 

_Do you miss me?_ In truth, he knew _her_ answer and hadn’t seen _her_ in months. Hadn’t talked in months. He thought about her every day, every hour, every minute. Even when their last conversation ended in a monstrous argument after having sex, Jaime still loved her. He loved her despite everything she had done— everything she made him do. Years ago, to put an end to rumors, boost her acting career and piss Jaime off, she married a famous actor. Yet, it felt like she cheated on Jaime. It killed him to see her happy with someone else, even if she faked it. _You definitely faked it._ Despite their passionate relationship lasting two decades, they had no evidence to show for it except secret paparazzi photos. They were Westeros’ unofficial favorite couple, but she denied their relationship from the very beginning. He couldn’t let her go. Jaime couldn’t be with anyone else, hadn’t been with anyone else… He wasn’t a one night stand man. Jaime wasn’t interested in anyone but her, even with hundreds of women willing to replace her. Without her, he was an incomplete puzzle.

A fool, Jaime thought getting clean would win her back. As if she’d magically divorce her husband, someone almost as handsome and famous as Jaime. Coming clean turned out more difficult than watching her marry another man, but only barely. Jaime counted how many days he had been clean, exactly three years, four months and ten days. As Jaime reflected, he looked down at his arm, embarrassed and sobered to see the small, singular scar on his forearm. It reminded him of the harsh reality of addiction. The night of the needle was simultaneously the best and worst night of his life. Hitting rock bottom without a career, a family or a lover almost killed him. He had no choice but to ask for help. When Jaime took slow steps back into society, he yearned to fill each hole in his heart: career, family, lover. _With no career, family or lover in the past, I don’t belong here._ Jaime needed to escape back to the weirwood again, and as fast as possible. _Just one touch, and I’ll be home._

Daven whispered, “These fucking rebels caught me in Whispering Wood. Then killed my father at Oxcross. I shall not cut my hair until avenge my father.” Deep loathing stained Daven’s voice. This man wanted revenge. Given the brutality of war, the grim reality hit Jaime hard. “I don’t mean to be insulting, Jaime," Daven said, "but just inside Harrenhal was Lord Tywin. I don’t understand how they tricked you—”

“I didn’t know he was in Harrenhal,” Jaime said, but soon regretted it. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could see Daven’s confusion. 

Around them, guards engaged in their own conversations and ignored their captives. More confident to speak, Daven said, “If you didn’t know that, you don’t know much else, I’m afraid.” 

Jaime grimaced while he twisted his jaw to the side in an attempt to hide his frustration and mild embarrassment. With only stale bread and water churning in his stomach, a pounding headache and a continuous shiver, Jaime asked Daven to enlighten him. So he did.

According to Daven, a man called Robert Baratheon took the throne after Aerys’ death, who ‘Jaime’ killed. Well, the other Jaime. King Baratheon married Cersei. Jaime felt his heart drop at the thought, remembering his dear sister existed in this world, too. Daven’s explaining left Jaime little time to ponder about it. Jaime needed to pay attention. The realm survived for many years in peace, or so it seemed. Cersei had three children: Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen. Cersei despised her husband, who whored around and drank constantly. Jaime clenched his fists together while he felt an incredible urge to protect his sister. Daven continued, saying he became a member of the Kingsguard. Due to this, Daven saw everything fall downhill the moment Robert’s Hand pass away. Robert chose Ned Stark to be his new hand. Due to a clumsy boy falling at Winterfell, bad blood boiled between the Starks and Lannisters. Catelyn managed to capture the dwarf. 

Jaime leaned forward. “Tyrion is alive?!”

Daven stared back, dumbfounded. Jaime expressed his relief with a smile. Ignoring Jaime’s elation, Daven replied, “Barely. I’m not even halfway through this shitty mess.”

Jaime nodded, allowing himself to listen. As Daven continued, Jaime wrapped his mind around the details. Family mattered. The dead Jaime had Tywin as a father, Cersei as a sister and Tyrion as a brother. _Same as me._ Jaime smirked as he imagined a Tyrion from the past. He hoped he was just as smart. _A shame I’ll never meet him._ Daven explained that when Ned arrived to King’s Landing, everything continued to fall apart. _Well, obviously, it’s not Ashlanding yet, that place is cursed._ Robert died after a hunting trip. King Joffrey, a boy, arrested Ned before beheading him. _Wow._ The Starks, from the North, started a rebellion. Two Baratheon brothers also claimed to be King of Westeros, because Joffrey was rumored to be a bastard. _This sounds like a soap opera._

“Well, is he a bastard?” Jaime asked. 

Daven glared, half in anger and half in shock. Daven never answered. Instead, Daven flexed about his poweress on the battlefield, and it bored Jaime. “I slayed one of those Karfucks when they took me,” Daven said, “and sliced right through him like he was a warm pigeon pie.”

_That sounds absolutely disgusting— and I’m starving._ Jaime forced a smile. However, his grin disappeared when Daven held up a hand and peered around with anxious eyes. Jaime followed his cousin’s lead and noticed a lack of guards.

The cursed woods witch glittered in the moonlight without her torch. She ignored Jaime, who burned holes into her with his eyes. The woman smiled, stepped towards the door and opened the cell. It creaked like an old tree bending in the wind. _Why is she letting us go?_

Daven walked over in a crouched position to the front. But it was too late. With the woman gone, a Northern soldier confronted Daven at the opening of the cell. Jaime held back, watching as Daven knocked the man to the ground. Within a few seconds, Daven’s chains wrapped around the man’s neck, forbidding air to enter his lungs. The man’s life washed away from his eyes, the same way the last chord of a song faded away into complete silence. Jaime’s heart hammered in his chest. Death followed Jaime in this world… and he needed to get out of it. Jaime had no choice but to follow Daven, who planned every step out of the camp. Most of the men around them remained aloof: drinking or sleeping. 

After a couple minutes of evading, Jaime and Daven reached tree cover outside of the sea of tents. Daven pulled out a ring of clanking metal keys to unlock both sets of their chains. _You slick bastard!_ Jaime rubbed his sore, aching wrists. 

Daven chuckled as if he won a game. “That man was a Karstark,” Daven said with a smile. “You know the best thing about heroes, Jaime? They all die young and leave more women for the rest of us.”

Blinking, Jaime let his heavy chains collide with the ground below him. In truth, Jaime didn’t want to murder anyone, not after the horrible car accident he already lived through. He also didn’t want to starve in a cell. He didn’t want to live a second longer in this misplaced existence. His life meant nothing without _her_. “There’s only one woman for me and I intend to go back to her,” Jaime said.

“Is that so?” Daven frowned. “Seven Blessings getting there, coz.”

Jaime let out a half smile, feeling relieved he could talk freely about his love without retribution. It was therapeutic. The healing ended when Daven unleashed a quick and rough bash to Jaime’s head. Jaime fell to the ground while his ears focused on two simultaneous sounds: Daven running away and Stark soldiers’ oncoming shouts.

Several Stark guards captured Jaime, and they dragged his exhausted body through the forest and camp. His stubble caked in mud and blood from where Daven hit him. Jaime wasn’t surprised by Daven’s sudden betrayal, although Jaime failed to know _why_. _Almost everyone betrays me._

Back in his cell, large fire pits stirred around him. Jaime resigned to his fate: dying in this world. Jaime bathed in another man’s grave. _They think I killed the guard._ Jaime laughed to himself and shook his head. _Ironic._ Unlucky for Jaime, Daven escaped, and the Stark soldiers blamed Jaime for killing the Karstark man. Jaime looked up to the sky, wondering if he should pray. He didn’t believe in any gods, but rehab helped him recognize his own insignificance and lack of control in life. Sad, but humbling. He just wished he didn’t disappoint anyone, even though he likely disappointed everyone: in this timeline and at home. The realization crushed him but with little to do about it, Jaime took a deep breath. _How many breaths do I have left?_

Men fought for a place in line to kill him. Calm, Jaime remained strapped to a pole in the center of the cell. An itch bothered him, but they bound him so well that he couldn’t squirm a muscle. 

“I need to be alone with him,” a woman said. He strained his eyes to see Catelyn Stark and her armored beast enter his cell.

Jaime smirked, wondering if he might die a more pleasant death with women present. _I can only hope._ Despite being in the dirtiest and ugliest state he could be in, Jaime forced a charming smile and said, “Come to say goodbye?”

“Do you hear them out there? They want your head,” Catelyn said.

Jaime tried to shrug, but failed. “The Karstarks don’t seem to like me.”

“You strangled Torrhen Karstark with your chains.”

Jaime looked down at the chains on his wrist. This wasn’t the first time he had been falsely accused, but it never mattered. If the public declared him guilty: he was. He let out a sigh and said, “This is a rather odd way for you to say goodbye.”

“You are a man without honor.”

Those words hurt him, more than he should have allowed. He scowled at her. “I’ve been called worse things by better people.”

She ignored him and continued in a quieter voice, “Lord Tywin’s raven arrived... He doesn’t believe you’re alive. I didn’t— until I saw you. You shall not survive the night here... I am proposing a trade. You return to your rightful place in the Kingsguard at King’s Landing and release my daughters, who are held hostage there.”

Jaime frowned at her sincerity. He should have known better. He was of more use alive than dead. She wanted to use him to rescue her daughters. Her eyes displayed great pain, something he hardly recognized due to his mother passing away when he was seven. The compassion and love in his family died and left with her. But Jaime could see the desperation in Catelyn’s eyes: a true mother. Unfortunately for Catelyn, he had no interest nor obligation to serve her. He never wronged her, nor belonged in this world. However, the Isle of Faces was directly in the path to the city they called King’s Landing. The idea gave him hope. “And which daughters are those?” Jaime asked.

“Sansa Stark and Arya Stark.”

Sansa… What an annoying and common name. He knew at least five Sansas in modern time. In fact, the acting queen of Direland was named Queen Sansa. Afraid the woman would see through his hidden grimace, he cleared his throat and tried to appear stoic.

“Swear that you will never again take up arms against Stark nor Tully,” Catelyn said. “Swear that you will compel your brother to honor his pledge to return my daughters safe and unharmed. Swear on your honor as a knight, on your honor as a Lannister, on your honor as a Sworn Brother of the Kingsguard. Swear it by your sister’s life, and your father’s, by the old gods and the new, and I’ll send you back to King’s Landing. Refuse, and I will have your blood.”

Jaime smiled. “You have my word. Just give me a sword, food and horse and I’ll be on my way.” _On my way to the weirwood._ Jaime lied to Catelyn, giving her his word, and it meant nothing. Instead, he intended to travel alone to the Isle of Faces and return home. He _needed_ to return home. If it took them five days to travel to Riverrun, he’d only need three to gallop his horse back. _And this nightmare will be over._

_We can turn back time_  
_let the bad blood lie_  
_Take, take me back home_

Lady Catelyn turned her attention to the lumbering beast behind her. “Cover his head.” Catelyn’s dark, red hair glistened in the firelight as she turned her stern eyes back to Jaime. “You have a long trip ahead of you, Kingslayer.”

For a split second, Jaime thought she might be referring to the hundreds of years of time travel he needed to achieve. _I’ve done it once before, I can do it again._ But his heart dropped as the armored woman covered his head in a sack with a rough yank. The beast lifted him like a feather and thrust him forward. Blind, Jaime dragged his feet behind in reluctance but the woman pushed harder.


	5. Chapter 5

He managed to sleep until he almost fell off of his horse. _Now I can check ‘blindly riding a horse’ off of my bucket list._ His seat ached. He hoped they headed the right direction: towards the Isle of Faces. Through the bag over his head, he heard the tall, armored woman on the horse beside him. Based on the sounds of hooves, they were alone. _Good. One tall woman to push out of the way, and I’ll be gone._

She thrust him off his saddle and gravity reminded him of his aging, hurting body. She lifted the bag, and daylight blinded him for a moment. He blinked, breathed and boiled in anger. On his knees, he glared at the tall, armored woman. She looked uglier in daylight. Between her large lips existed a gap open enough to show enormous, albeit white, teeth. Various sized freckles tainted her skin, speckling her unfortunate face as if the Gods wanted to make several mistakes by creating her. Her crooked nose bent, and as she turned to slap the horses away, her profile surmounted her unsightly features— her nose even _more_ crooked from the side. Her feathery, weak blonde hair jetted around. _Your face wouldn’t even be attractive if you were a man._ She looked young, in spite of her mature, stern scowl. The young woman glowered at him, revealing her only attractive feature: her blue eyes. And they deemed him inadequate. Uncomfortable and under investigation, Jaime asked, “What’s your name?”

Instead of answering him, she yanked him to standing. Sore and tired, Jaime complied. Taller than him, and without an ounce of effort, she pushed him forward while she ordered, “Walk.”

The tomboy’s feminine voice amused Jaime, as if she tried to make herself sound more masculine. _Seven Hells, she’s almost as masculine as me._ He followed her command, smiling down at the ground in amusement. Jaime turned back to ask her name again, but the sight of her left him bursting with a smile. _This is laughable. I’m being pushed around by a lady knight._

Jaime walked and rolled his shoulders. “I have a right to know your identity.” His wrists remained shackled in irons, and his leather shoes felt a size too tight.

After a long pause, she answered in a dry voice, “Brienne of Tarth.”

_That Tarth?_ Jaime frowned and turned to gaze at her. He saw no anguish on her face other than her hideous features. He walked forward and remembered the history of Tarth. By the time Jaime was born, a volcano had already destroyed Tarth. Almost all of the island collapsed after an eruption, leaving a huge water filled crater in its wake. The historic city, Evenfall, had been obliterated and buried underneath tons and tons of ash from the volcano. History dubbed it as one of the most tragic events, including the burning of Ashlanding and destruction of Valyria. In school, Jaime grew attached to the history because of Tarth’s carefree, musical lifestyle. 

Jaime cleared his throat. “Why don’t we stop by Harrenhal, I left something there.” The Isle of Faces was so close to Harrenhal… If he could convince her to take a detour— 

“Do you take me for an idiot?”

Jaime scoffed and glared back at her. “You tell me, you’re about as sharp as a ball.” He mocked a smile in her direction as they arrived at the bank of a river. Autumn leaves crunched under his feet. For a fleeting moment, her lips pressed into a tense frown. She hated him and her reactions entertained him. Until she kicked the back of his knees. Jaime grunted and stumbled to the ground. Brienne leaned forward and peered down the river. Curious, Jaime followed suit, poking his head as people crossed a nearby bridge. _If I can get them to spot me—_

Brienne clenched the old rags on his shoulders and threw him onto his back. Wind flew out of his lungs and in the process, Jaime’s wobbly legs hit hers, causing her to tumble on top of him. Brienne sank like a rock, faster than Jaime falling through time. Unwilling, he caught her fall with his body and groaned out in pain. Rosiness sprouted on her cheeks, even though she pinned _him_ to the ground. Her mortified look matched her mortifying face. Her firm hands pressed on his chest, forcing him to struggle for air. Sounds of wagons crossing the bridge continued as she pinned Jaime into the thick brush beside the river. She tried her best to ignore him, looking around the plants to see if the wagon completed its crossing. Like an itch, she annoyed and bothered him to no end. 

“You know, I can satisfy you better if you let me breathe,” he said. In an instant, she lifted herself off of him in disgust. He inhaled, breathing her in. Despite not bathing for days, weeks or who knows how long, she smelled better than she looked. _She looks... ugh._ Jaime smirked at the sight of her tense eyebrows. _She hates it when I talk. Lucky for her, I talk a lot._ Jaime licked his lips and smiled. “Satisfied so quickly? I’m afraid you don’t know much if it’s over _that_ soon.” Jaime wanted to stab at her vulnerability. 

Brienne let out a sound mixed between a scoff and a gag. She may have been dressed in armor, but he could tell she _hated_ his sexual references. 

Jaime leaned forward to dominate the space between them. “Unless that was your first—”

She grimaced and thrust her hard shoulders against his chest. Jaime fell backwards with a hard thump. It hurt. _Was that worth it? Maybe._ Jaime tried laughing through awkward breathing and pain. With another look, he guessed her age at either late teens or early twenties. She continued to glare at him, weighing him down with her eyes of steel. Perhaps, he had been too harsh. 

_I don’t know what’s worth fighting for  
or why I have to scream  
I don’t know why I instigate   
and say what I don’t mean_

“Why do you hate me so much, have I ever harmed you?” Jaime asked, unable to hide disappointment in his tone.

She lifted herself up when she determined it was safe. Not missing a beat, she yanked Jaime to standing and pushed him towards a boat on the bank of the river. As she forced him down into the boat, she said, “You’ve harmed others. Those you’ve sworn to protect. The weak. The innocent.”

Annoyed, Jaime rolled his eyes. _I’ve harmed others in my time, not here._ After six days of being treated like scum, he became tired of living through someone else’s sins. “Does your ass ever get jealous of all the shit that comes out of your mouth?”

“You will _not_ provoke me to anger,” she said through gritted teeth.

“I already have!”

The woman strained a smile. “All my life men like you have sneered at me. And all my life I’ve been knocking men like you into the dust.”

“There are no men like me. Only me.”

She ignored him and pointed her finger into the boat, signalling him to sit. Jaime followed her command while he considered tipping it over. _If I get these chains off, I could escape in a heart beat._ He offered several times to help row and she denied him every time. She rowed them down the river for several hours. She never asked for help rowing, and she never grew tired. _This woman is terrible at conversation._ Jaime leaned back in the boat and watched trees against the river. A contentious issue in modern times, Jaime now saw proof of the importance of deforestation. Beauty surrounded him, with the exception of the large beast that pushed them along in the river. At the same time, however, they drifted by war's destruction: burned houses, rotting smells and ghost towns. Over war or peace, the sun made its way to the west side of the sky, signaling to Jaime he survived an entire day in the past. Another day sober. He sighed. He escaped the cell, but failed to gain freedom from history.

The boat nudged against the side of a bank which startled daydreaming Jaime. Brienne jerked the rope she tied to him. Forced to stand, he followed her onto a road near the river. Beyond them, three women hanged in nooses. By the smell of them, they had been dead for days. Death followed him at an alarming and unwelcoming pace. Horrible smells ripened in his nose, haunting him. As she tied him to a tree, Jaime read the sign among them: ‘They Lay With Lions’

“How long do you want to stand here?” Jaime asked Brienne as she looped his rope around the tree.

“I’ll leave no innocents to be food for crows,” she said. She seemed as annoyed at him as he did towards her.

“Then what will the crows eat? Poor crows. No one ever thinks about them,” he replied, faking a sympathetic frown. Already a routine, she disregarded him. Jaime waited as Brienne cut down the hanging women. Bones and flesh crunched when they hit the ground. New, disgusting smells wafted around him while he watched her use the edge of a large flat stone to dig into the ground.

Bored, Jaime sighed and watched. This woman didn’t know them, yet she wanted to bury them anyway. _Should I tell her the Gods don’t care?_ Jaime held his tongue, until a sail caught his eye. “Miss Knight,” Jaime warned, wanting to get her attention.

Brienne grumbled and looked up at him while she dripped in sweat. “My _name_ is Brienne.”

_You’re no fun._ “Brienne, there’s a sail,” Jaime said, earning her attention. She glanced past the boat. Unbelievable to him, her face turned more ugly. Brienne abandoned the burials, untied Jaime and led him back to the boat like a dog on a leash. By then, the sail of soldiers already rowed closer. Flags of trouts waved in the wind.

“Kingslayer, take an oar and keep us off the rocks,” Brienne said as she pushed themselves back out to the river in the boat. _But what about those half buried women you left behind?_ In that moment, Jaime had to choose between her or a boat of fish. Jaime looked back, noticing a dozen or so men on board. _Escaping one woman is far easier than twelve men._ Jaime nodded and grabbed an extra oar. Even with chains, rowing invigorated him. He finally used his hands again after leaving them useless for almost an entire week. 

Jaime glanced at the men’s ship, now armed with bows. Brienne checked her hip for her sword and dagger. _Can you even use those?_ Jaime felt badly questioning a woman, but even she couldn’t outfight a dozen men. To his surprise, she appeared calm and focused. Worse than the possibility of outfighting them was their chance to out-row them. The trout soldiers continued to close the gap while both boats entered a deep canyon. Jaime’s heart raced with each heave. He loved adventure, but this type of danger struck a terrifying chord within him.

A splash entered his ears. Upon looking, Brienne was gone. _What a coward._ Jaime rowed without direction, watching the men gain speed towards him. It was hopeless. _I’ll have to find another way._ Jaime found it hard not to panic, especially when he heard their commander instruct the archers to draw. _They want to kill me?!_ He opened his mouth, ready to surrender, until he heard the odd sound of rocks hitting metal.

Pebbles rained from the top of the canyon, sprinkling on the archers and causing each one to falter and groan. Jaime smiled and let out a single laugh at the humorous sight. Forgetting to row, the men’s chaos mesmerized Jaime. Even more enthralling was Brienne’s capability. Jaime watched as she grabbed a huge stone from the top of the cliff, far too heavy, and threw it down onto the middle of the men’s boat. It snapped the wooden base of the boat, causing water to fill and surround the sinking men.

In awe, Jaime stopped rowing and followed his captor on the ledge. Brienne jogged down the cliff, dove into the water with grace and swam towards their small boat. Jaime’s heart continued to race as he considered knocking her out with the oar. But as her pale freckled hands reached the side of the boat, Jaime changed his mind… and helped her. He wanted to return the favor. Only once. _What do I care?_ He set the oar down and reached out his hands, opening them for her to hold. Her sparkling eyes judged him worthy and she accepted his help. Drenched, she climbed inside. _She’s even uglier wet._

Like nothing ever happened, she took the oars back from him and rowed herself. Jaime reminded himself not to smile like a lucky idiot. The entire adventure amused him. A dozen armed men outsmarted by _just her_. Even in modern times, a single person outsmarting a dozen people would be impressive. Jaime couldn’t help but observe her as she rowed. _No, she wouldn’t fit in my time either._ He glanced away at the setting sun, trying to not focus on time. In rehab, he had been told to avoid looking to the past. Now, he lived in it as an intercept on the arrow of time.

“Any food, Miss Knight?” Jaime asked when he heard his stomach grumble.

She ignored him. Even in the dying light, Jaime discerned her grotesque look of annoyance. Her expressions added to her unattractiveness. The moon started to rise in the sky. 

“You’re not the ugliest person in the world, but you better hope they don’t die,” Jaime said, crossing his arms as the humid, cold air drifted over him.

“Then I hope you’re doing well and I pray for your health,” she said.

Jaime let out a genuine smile. She was young, but a quick learner.


	6. Chapter 6

With each passing day, Jaime grew more irritated. Brienne and the past imprisoned him, leaving him one remaining nerve. After her brilliant ideas to shoo their horses away _and_ abandon their boat so they could frolic through farms and brush, Jaime made it his mission to agitate her. Seven Hells, time with this woman turned Jaime insane. For four weeks, his captor yanked or pushed him in the direction of her choosing. She held his leash while he pissed and tied his rope to a tree when he shit and slept. Fucking humiliating. Jaime spent his nights shivering against a tree, dozing in and out of consciousness. The beast refused fires past sundown and embers never lasted long enough. They ate almost spoiled meat off of bones left behind and boiled bones in disgusting broths. Jaime never thought he’d live like such a savage. An unlucky squirrel would cross paths with the bear of a woman, and after catching them, she bothered to give Jaime half— every time. He forgot her good intentions the moment she forbid him to steal vegetables or food from the farms they crossed. _Insufferable, honorable woman._

Jaime wished they rowed in rivers, because his journey would be much shorter. _I could have been home by now._ With no horses and little to eat, they cut each day’s travel short to hunt for food. Well, only she hunted for food while he sat tied to a tree. She never let him far out of her sight, though. She feared him, or, feared the prior Jaime’s reputation.

“Can’t we make more use of the inns?” Jaime asked once, trying to ease her into conversation. Jaime hated sleeping without a roof over his head. He earned a scowl as an answer. In that moment, he felt she was more man than him.

Jaime talked till he grew blue in the face, and without responding, the shy, young woman listened… usually. His hunger drove most of the conversations as they marched through tall grasses, fields and forests. It kept his mind off relapse: a stressful and recurring nightmare he endured every night.

“I’ve had the most delicious meals you could possibly imagine,” Jaime said, stepping over ridges in the wheat farm they crossed. She held his rope while he walked ahead of her. “Chocolate ice cream. Rice soaked in broth, seasonings and loaded with perfectly tender squid. Have you ever had rice?” She didn’t answer. “I want things I never thought I’d even beg for. Potato chips. Salty, crisp, crunchy. There are so many flavors, I don’t even know which one I want first. Fried chicken! Gods, have you ever had that?! It’s so bad for you, but oh so good.” Jaime looked back at her with a sinful smile, and she glowered at him. He ignored her pessimism and continued, “You can have it spicy, sweet, whatever you want. It gets even better. Have it with waffles, syrup and your life is complete in one single instant.” Still in chains, Jaime held out his hands and fantasized the meal in front of his eyes. His tongue tingled at the thought. “Never mind, something with cheese would be better, mac and cheese. Grilled cheese— Gods!”

He wasn’t even sure if she listened to him. The lewd sounds erupting from Jaime’s mouth made Brienne’s eyes roll. He didn’t care. She likely didn’t understand half of what he said, if not more. She occasionally looked at him like he was crazy, and he always replied with the same line, “It’s not from here.”

However, a particular type of food peaked her interest. As they passed a small dirt road into a forest, Jaime said, “The best crab I’ve ever had is off the island of Tarth.” 

She stopped, just for a moment, and the rope tugged on Jaime. He faltered, looked back and continued, “Flakey and cooked in ways you couldn’t imagine. I can just taste it now. Buttery meat, mixed with cheese and added to muffins. Broiled. Seared so well, yet it just melts in your mouth and fills your belly until you’re warm and fuzzy.”

The hope disappeared from her eyes and hate returned. She walked forward, tightening her grip around the rope that contained him. “That doesn’t sound like Tarth crab.”

Jaime scoffed as she walked ahead of him. The pair started to ascend a small hill, and he began to lose his breath. Upset at her taking the lead and her disgust, he replied, “Well, I didn’t say I had it _in_ Tarth. I had it in the Isle of Faces, we should go there. Just for a rest. A meal. What do you say?” He hoped his improvisation worked.

Anger consumed her while she turned around. She said, “There is nothing there, shut up about it! _Shut up entirely!_ ” 

Her snapping scared him— only for a moment. Instead of blowing up at him further, Brienne let out a deep sigh, ignored him, turned around and kept walking. _That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?!_ Fate somehow placed Jaime with the quietest person in Westeros. _This is worse than torture._

“Gods... you’re so... boring!” he said, walking forward and taking the lead again. He breathed out a loud sigh from exertion.

“Boring?” she replied, walking up alongside him. “And what would you like me to do, entertain you?” She spoke as if he were a boy.

“Yes!” he said, not caring if he sounded desperate. He suffered a long month alone with her, it was a wonder he still survived. She walked ahead of him and yanked him forward as he continued, “Talk, at the very least. I haven’t found a single admirable trait about you. As if your single purpose in life is to annoy me.”

“Can you name an admirable trait for yourself, Kingslayer?” She said, looking back with the faintest smirk— except she looked like she was having a stroke.

“Several! I’m handsome. Great family name.” She said nothing and kept walking. He dragged his feet, forcing her to pull harder on the rope. He added, “I’m unwed.”

“You’re a member of the Kingsguard and old,” she said in a miffed tone.

“Old?!”

“Look at you,” she said, gesturing to her full armor. If she meant that he _mildly_ struggled to keep up with her, she needed to give him more credit. Maybe life expectancy was around his age or a little older in her times, but he was in great health!

“Look at me? Look at you! You’re absolutely mad to be marching around Westeros alone in barbarous times, you’d be mad enough to do it in my time—”

She stopped, trying to harm him with her glare. If she meant to put him back in his place, she half achieved it. “Excuse me?” she asked, offended.

“You just… aren’t you worried about being here all alone? You’re a young woman,” his eyes concentrated on her unattractive face before he spoke out loud, “Gods, you could use some bronzer.”

“Bronzer? I already have armor.” 

A single laugh escaped Jaime. At least she replied. Maybe he was onto something. With his hands, he signaled on himself where to put bronzer, “No, you just put this bronze colored tint on your cheek bones, around the face. Gods, woman, I don’t know, why don’t you have that here? It makes you look more…” Jaime cocked his head to the side, wondering how to describe her face. “... distinguished.”

Her large blue eyes bore into him. She realized he started to mock her again. Jaime felt something deep inside him breaking at her intensity, but he remained clueless to identify it. Her stare bothered him, so he averted his eyes. His newfound gaze led to a distant wooden structure. After bickering for several minutes, Jaime convinced Brienne to scope the place out.

The abandoned cabin had no horses nor people. Much to his surprise, she agreed to spend a night there, but only one. She started a fire and roasted stale seeds as the cabin grew dark with nightfall. Large roof holes reminded him of rundown houses he found himself in, looking for drugs in Ashlanding, Lannisport or any city around the world. Jaime felt an itch on his arm. He only used needles once, and he managed to escape it disease free. Jaime never wanted to forget his rock bottom, or else he would fall back into it. 

Brienne rummaged through the far corner, never leaving Jaime out of her sight. With a faint smile, she dragged out a straw bed covered in a thin cloth. Under her supervision, Jaime explored the sides of the cabin while she took off her own armor, a ritual she performed every evening. A dissonant chord floated into his ear as his foot discovered something on the ground. Jaime lunged down. He grabbed the source of the sound: an ancient instrument, similar to a guitar.

“Brian of Tarth,” he said, using her new annoying nickname, “why didn’t you tell me you found this?”

“My _name_ is _Brienne_ ,” she said for the hundredth time. “What are you going to do, fight with that?”

Jaime laughed. “Yes,” he said, “I fight with this, not swords.” 

For the very first time, she laughed. He ignored it.

Weeks. It had been weeks too long without playing an instrument. Jaime pulled up the makeshift guitar to his face and blew the dust off while admiring several strings. He smiled like a boy receiving his dream gift on his name day. Or a father seeing his first born child. Yes, music was _that_ important to him. Jaime picked each string, tuning it as he went. He came alive with music— he was meant for it.

Cold, Jaime stepped towards the fire, sat down and strummed a chord. He laughed to himself as he adjusted the priceless instrument on his lap. Jaime licked his lips and played through chords and scales, warming up his fingers. Awkward chains around his wrist gave him just enough room to play. “Music can make a complete stranger break down and cry,” he said while Brienne sat on the straw bed with suspicious eyes. Her sword rested beside her, never far away.

His right foot tapped to a beat as his right hand strummed along to one of his favorite songs: a ballad. Jaime played it slower than normal, making sure to hit every note and each of the four chords. Brienne listened while she stared at the fire. When it was time to sing, his voice took over the melody, complementing balanced notes from his fingers. The sad song was therapeutic to sing, inspired by his powerlessness in the face of love.

_”Come up to meet you  
tell you I’m sorry  
You don’t know how lovely you are  
I had to find you  
tell you I need you  
tell you I set you apart”_

Tragic lyrics, although ambiguous, left room for many interpretations. He described the difficulty of the end while he wished he could go back and start over. His past decisions haunted him. He picked apart everything he could, coming to the conclusion that nothing was going to work out. Even with the odds against him, he couldn’t help but follow his heart instead of his mind. Nearly five minutes long, Jaime ended the song on a major chord, and he allowed the sound to vibrate away into stillness.

Jaime opened his eyes and turned them to Brienne, who remained still. For the first time, he saw fragility in her, if only for a moment. Her shoulders sank, she blinked slowly, and her chest lifted with deep breaths. She understood those feelings, even at such a young age, and held empathy for his lyrics. She straightened her back. “I’m not crying.”

Her answer annoyed him, bringing him out of his zone. “Unfortunately for me, you’re not a complete stranger, Brian.”

“My name is Bri—” 

“Yes, yes, I know.”

His hands picked notes of a chord in succession, ascending and descending until he changed the scale with his left hand.

“Do you know many other songs?” Brienne asked, and her question surprised him. The idea of anyone in ancient times wanting to hear his music excited him. Jaime half smiled and nodded, starting to play a different chord for another one of his favorite songs.

“No, something I know,” she said, interrupting him.

Defeated, as if he encountered a disappointed fan, Jaime paused and frowned. _Why do I feel the need to impress you?_ In spite of the timeline, Brienne represented many symbols to Jaime. She was an ancient version of a feminist, whether she knew it or not, and grew up in a completely different generation. As for life experience, she appeared ten years younger than him. His most recent albums, more or less, unimpressed the younger crowd. He knew why. The music scene changed every year, and rock became more and more overdone and… old. Artists no longer wrote their own music. Singers used technology to correct their horrible pitch. Several producers encouraged Jaime to embrace a more pop genre, and he refused. _I have enough skill for a hundred modern musicians combined._

“Six sorrows?” she asked. Jaime never heard of it.

“Lass Down in the Grass?” She asked again.

Jaime laughed and shook his head. “Which one’s that one?” It sounded like a fun song.

She ignored him and asked, “My Lady Wife? Featherbed?”

“Nope,” he replied, earning a strange look from her due to his odd word choice. He sighed and elaborated in a more time-appropriate word, “No.”

“How can you be a singer and not know these songs?” The sneaking suspicion seeped from her eyes. Jaime felt hot, either from the fire or her doubt.

“Because I’m not from here, Brienne,” he answered, with traces of sorrow in his voice. 

All he wanted was to go home... To see _her_... To sing his heart out for cheering crowds. He wanted to write about his struggles: the hunger, the loneliness, the pessimism. _It will be the best song I ever write. Maybe I’ll even cry, like that woman said._ Jaime half humored himself by remembering her odd riddle. As if she knew his future. He only briefly considered the possibility of truth before he rejected the echoing words in his mind:

_Your past becomes your future. Your love awaits you at the northern weirwood. You will kill something you’ve lost, marry the Queen, but wear no crown. You will make music that brings tears to your eyes. You will return home._

Jaime continued to play the instrument he could not name. He noticed less glances from Brienne when he didn’t sing, so, like an experienced entertainer, he catered the performance to her by shutting his mouth. He played instrumental songs only. After a few songs, some fast, some slow, she rested on the straw bed. Her eyes remained open for a couple more songs, blinking occasionally while she stared at the fire.

Her eyes closed, and he felt let down to lose his sole audience. At the same time, it gave him an opportunity... His mind pondered a way to escape while his fingers continued to play. Across the room, in the dying firelight, Jaime saw a large board up against the door to prevent anyone from getting inside. He only had to lift it up without her noticing.

Slowly, he stood and set the instrument on the chair behind him. With one step, he heard a crash, filling the cabin with the snaps and loud clicks as the instrument crashed to the floor. Brienne sat up in an instant and Jaime winced in horror. He grieved for his lost chance at escape and the snapped strings of his newfound friend. _Can this get any harder?_

As if she knew what he was thinking, she ordered, “Lie down.”

Jaime chuckled to himself and pulled on his rope, which remained free from his usual tree companion. He swung the rope around, taunting his own freedom in front of her. He felt like Tyrion, stuck in a situation he needed to outsmart more than anything else. _She doesn’t mean with her, does she?_ Jaime smirked. He knew she was a virgin ever since she said she would rather be called ‘maid of Tarth’ over ‘Brian of Tarth’. _But Brian’s funnier._ Jaime cocked his head to the side with a smirk and said, “I thought it was improper for a maid to ask a man to join her in bed.” 

“Beside the bed,” her dry voice answered.

Jaime smirked once and walked to the side with her sword. By that point, only embers lit the room, which glowed a deep red on the far side of the room.

“Other side,” she said. 

Jaime clenched his jaw. He considered testing her, but eventually followed her orders. He used to give orders, not take them. Long gone were the days he could snap a finger for service. He took all servers, interns and helpers for granted. When Jaime lay down, the soreness of the day crept up on him. Wooden slats creaked and refused to yield to his aching muscles and joints. Frustrated, Jaime turned towards the straw bed beside him. At the very least, her side of the bed felt warm. 

“Touch me in my sleep and you’ll regret your action,” she threatened in the dark. Her rough nature distracted him from his troubles, because tormenting her became his new favorite tradition.

“You’re much prettier in this light,” Jaime said with a smile, though she wouldn’t be able to see it.

As if she actually thought he meant those words, she replied with three simple words, “I’m not interested.” 

He truly believed her.


	7. Chapter 7

Jaime behaved, sleeping next to Brienne’s straw bed without touching her. At one point, he slept so well that he dreamed of the accident. His car crashed into that poor family’s van— killing them, and in the dream, his lover laughed at him. _If only that part wasn’t true._ And yet, he missed her, more than he ever thought possible. _What does she think of me, gone?_ People disappeared all the time, but not him. He wanted to haunt her— stronger and stronger until she had no choice but to yield to him. His effectiveness at surrounding her was moot, considering his current situation. Even if he returned home, the chances were slim, he knew. Their love was supposed to last forever, but they grew up and wide apart. Still... he hoped.

Jaime opened his eyes at the sound of stirring. Brienne awoke, ignored him and tended to the fire. Either his thoughts or the frigid chill of a bed without Brienne’s body warmth woke him. With no choice but to wake, Jaime rose with the sun and helped Brienne prepare breakfast. He tried to forget his nightmares by badgering Brienne with discussion. She provided curt answers, as if speaking to him was the last thing she ever wanted. His feelings were mutual.

As they started their journey along the river, Jaime asked, “Tell me what they say about me, any songs?”

“No, though if there were, it would be named Kingslayer.” Brienne scratched her head with one hand while her other hand held his rope.

“I take it I’m not known as a great musician?”

“I haven’t heard of it. I’ve only heard of your fighting. Tourneys.”

Jaime nodded and rubbed the side of his neck against his shoulder, which felt odd, sore and swollen, likely from the wooden floor. 

“How did I die? Or rather— ” he corrected himself, “how does everyone think I died?”

“Some say dead in a cell. Others say wildfire,” she said. 

Jaime winced. He could almost taste wildfire, like bitter gasoline. Wildfire was a horrible way to go. Almost every country banned wildfire for centuries. 

Brienne continued, “I’d be more inclined to ask you how you escaped. Sorcery?”

Sorcery. The word perked up Jaime’s interest as an itch bothered him on the top of his head. “You believe in sorcery?” _Would you believe me if I said I’m from the future? Not likely._

“I’ve seen… circumstances I cannot explain.”

Jaime stopped and frowned, causing her to stop with him as the rope pulled taut.

“Me, too,” Jaime said with great concern, half tempted to open up and explain his damned situation. _Why bother with her?_ She’d either give into compassion and let him go or strike him down as a mad man and kill him. In fact, upon further thought, she would do neither. As she said many, many times, she was loyal to Catelyn Stark and her mission was to return the Stark girls. It didn’t matter if Jaime wasn’t the Jaime they thought he was. In their eyes, he was a pawn. She saw him the same as everyone else… Kingslayer.

Over the course of his month long excursion in the past, he grew fond of the original Jaime Lannister. He was a knight, and a sworn brother of the Kingsguard. Also the brother of the queen, royal blood coursed through him. _Almost as famous as me._ Everyone hated him, however, because he killed a king he swore to protect. Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. Brienne loved reminding him of his titles. _Is it really surprising someone murdered Jaime after he slew his king?_ No, but it hurt Jaime all the same. Even so, he didn’t want to replace the original Jaime any longer than necessary. Jaime needed to escape and return home. Jaime raised his hands to scratch at an uncontrollable itch on his scalp.

Brienne matched his movements and clawed at her own head. The realization hit her first and she let out an unattractive grumble. “Fleas,” she said, marching on— as if it was expected!

Jaime, wide eyed and concerned, yanked on the rope. “Fleas?!”

She didn’t respond.

“Like the kind with plague?!” Jaime asked.

Brienne whirled around and glared at him. “You have the plague?” She pulled on the rope and compressed all of her facial muscles into an obscene expression.

“Well, how do I know?! The plague is on fleas!” Jaime said.

“On fleas?” she said, not believing him. “How is—” 

“Because I just know! How do we get them off? Any natural pesticides or something?!”

She widened her eyes and scratched her neck. “Come on, Kingslayer,” she said while she changed directions. Her feet marched towards the river. 

Meanwhile, endless, tingling creatures crawled along Jaime’s scalp and neck. He walked faster to gain more rope in order to scratch at the tiny pests. 

Brienne ordered Jaime to follow her into the river. He hesitated, only to comply a few seconds later. She grumbled. Brienne preferred everything by the book, and she despised challenges to her loyalty or honor. Her ethical trait annoyed Jaime to no end. Adaptation annoyed Brienne, but Jaime welcomed it. _I could use a bath._

Cold water seeped into his ragged clothes. Without warm sun coating him, he worried he would freeze. Brienne kept them in a calmer part of the river, in a section that blocked the current with an accumulation of large boulders. Water came to their waists. Jaime expended his hysteria, supplied with a litter of curse words. Brienne instructed him to dip under the water. They needed to pick the fleas off— by hand.

After he soaked himself, scrubbed his face and itched his neck, Jaime bowed towards Brienne. She combed through his hair with a twig and seeking fingers. His eyes searched for anything to get his mind off of the uncontrollable itching. He stared at the golden metal on her chest. _Of course, the make-believe knight won’t take off her armor._ Jaime sniffled once, which receiving a quick glare from his flea partner. _What in Seven Hells is that look for?_ An itch tingled in his beard. “Beard— my beard— one of them is in my beard!” he said, wailing for her help. 

“Will you stop shouting?!”

Jaime lurched his hands towards his face, flinging water up into their eyes. He swore the flea laughed and jumped down his tunic, wiggling its tainted way to his trousers. He yelped. In haste, he pulled, squirmed and removed his soaked shirt off of his head. Chains stopped him from completing the task and fabric pooled around his wrists. Jaime let out a deep breath and shook his head, splashing droplets all around him. He opened his eyes to see Brienne’s eyes— mortified— staring at him, as if he just killed someone. 

Worried, he furrowed his brows and narrowed his eyes at her. He intended to match her powerful focus on him. She had to have seen something. _More fleas? Rats? What?!_ His eyes descended to his own bare chest, looking for fleas, vermin or anything disgusting. Nothing. A moment later, she averted her eyes to the water. _Seven Hells, help me!_ Jaime leaned forward with desperate eyes, seeking her attention, but she refused to look at him. She bent her head away with tight, pressed lips. _She won’t look at me…_ Her bare hands tightened into white fists. _...She won’t look at me._ Jaime cracked a charismatic smile. He knew her expression. His bare skin shamed her. Pure innocence radiated from her like a faint, whispering melody, reminding him that she was a young maid... from hundreds of years in the past. His power and her vulnerability tempted him to tease her more. “I’ve shown you mine, care to show yours?” he said. 

She snapped her head forward, piercing her eyes through him. Veins and tension smoldered within her neck. 

Unable to move under her judgment, Jaime stared. He did, however, succeed by raising his chained wrists and shirt up in defense and surrender. He wouldn’t dare admit it, but her anger scared him. “Your armor is hard to take off, I understand,” he said. He followed her eyes, now locked on the flexed muscles in his arms. The corner of Jaime’s lips curved into a smirk. “Did you hear that?” Jaime looked around. “Did you hear someone apologize for calling me old? See it for yourself, I’m not _old_.” He was in his mid thirties for Seven’s sake!

“Turn around, Kingslayer,” she said without amusement. _Have it your way, more fun for me._ He chuckled and spun around, showing her his back.

“Head back,” she added, cracking her voice. _She’s nervous._ Jaime smiled to himself. In the five weeks of being a prisoner of the past, he almost forgot how wonderful it felt to be desired. Brienne was nowhere close to coming onto him, he knew that much, but he affected her. He affected all women, and it was annoying, really. Her fingers yanked through his hair, distracting him from his narcissistic thoughts. She neglected to show care or concern for keeping his hair follicles intact. 

He let out a large sigh of relief when she finished. Itchiness still remained, but she assured him she removed every flea. Soon, the awkward moment came for him to return the favor. _Does she feel as ugly as she looks?_ She waited, and he hesitated. Their stiff stare ended after a few seconds, when Jaime held up his wrists, still weighed down by chains and the wet shirt. She knew what he wanted. _Take the damn chains off, finally._ He cherished watching her wrestle with the dilemma, and in the end, she unlocked one of his wrists and relocked it to her own. 

Their close proximity of hands bothered him, like he was a teenager forced to dance with some clumsy girl. “I work better with both hands,” he said, forcing a fake, shy smile.

After reluctance, she agreed and unlocked everything. She hooked the chains in her belt.

_Now, the hard part._ With two free hands, Jaime picked the fleas off of her hair— disgusting but easy. He planned an escape route while his fingers explored. Her eyes remained closed, refusing any glances to his chest, arms or face. In a way, he felt badly for her. _Maybe you’ll find someone who makes you blush as much as I make you._ Due to her thin and pale yellow hair, he finished quickly. Jaime gestured her to turn with a quick tap on her shoulder. Once she turned, he picked and combed through her hair with her faced away from him— but silence still lingered. He said, “I remember an old, quick song you may know.”

She tensed. Comfortable without a cue or her consent, Jaime started to sing the rousing song:

_“Off to Gulltown to see the fair maid,  
heigh-ho, heigh-ho.  
I'll steal a sweet kiss with the point of my blade,  
heigh-ho, heigh-ho.  
I'll make her my love and we'll rest in the shade,  
heigh-ho, heigh-ho.”_

“Not a very nice song, Kingslayer,” she said with mild disgust.

“No, it’s not,” he agreed, “they banned it when I was a child. The points of blades are dangerous weapons.”

“That they are, Kingslayer. I always have mine, even now.”

“Are we talking about the same blade?” he asked. She turned her head back, blinked and rolled her eyes. 

He smiled as she figured out the innuendo. She really was a maid, after all. Encrusted with dirt still deep under his nails, Jaime kept looking and picking for fleas long after he found the last one. He wanted to escape… needed to escape. _You reminded me of that blade of yours, sharp as it is, but you won’t use it. You follow rules._ Jaime swallowed and cleared his throat as rising anticipation supplied his muscles with oxygen. _I need to get back home. Based on the sun and river, I need to head south, which is to my right._

Jaime took in a deep breath.

He closed his eyes while his fingers trembled against the back of Brienne’s head. _Now or never._ She spread her hands to find his, and he thrust himself against her, forcing her to her knees. Soaking wet, Brienne curved around to find him in the sudden chaos. Jaime rushed for the forest. On quick reflection, running through the forest alone without a shirt was not his greatest idea.

Except— Jaime barely made it out of the water. Her full form pounced after him and she clasped onto the top of his ragged trousers. Jaime tried tugging himself away but only met more resistance from the strong woman. With her slowed by water and armor, Jaime adapted and seized the pommel of her sword secured to her hip. Brienne groaned while Jaime swung the sword. Apprehensive, she let go of his trousers. Amid a breathless grin, he laughed and admired his new sword— just for a moment. She was his focus and _she_ was his enemy. His blood roared. _Maybe I have more in common with this Jaime than I thought._ The sword fit like a glove in his hands.

“Yield! Throw down the sword,” Brienne said. 

Jaime stepped onto the bank of the river and she followed. 

“I would not hurt you, Kingslayer,” she added, confirming his guess from earlier.

With a vicious smirk, he replied, “Oh, but I would hurt you.” Jaime leapt forward, hoping to pierce her with his sword, the damn thing was heavy— and she clenched each of his hands, forcing him to release his hold under the sheer pressure of her prowess. His sword fell. With no time to feel embarrassed, Jaime withdrew in an attempt to outrun her. On his way, he slipped on a rock while she grasped onto him and they tumbled down into the river together.

Half on land, half on water, Jaime lay with Brienne sat astride him. He squirmed with great effort and little reward. Everything about her suffocated him. Jaime stretched for the sword next to him— the wet blade glimmering in clear water. Her hands wrapped around his neck, holding his head barely above the surface.

“Yield, or I’ll drown you!” she said. She lost control.

“And break your oath, like me?” he answered.

He watched her face turn more ugly in contempt. Jaime took in a deep breath as her grip tightened— until someone else said, “Looks like your woman is getting the better of you... if you can call that a woman.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Say hello to, mostly, book Vargo and his lisps.

The ugly woman let go of Jaime as her cheeks turned ablaze. _She looks as if they caught us fucking instead of fighting._ Jaime wanted to laugh, but her alarm prevented him from joining in the fun. Ten or so men appeared on all sides, snickering with mouths full of rotten or missing teeth. Chills ran over Jaime, still wet and shirtless as he clamored to standing. Beside Brienne, he stood shorter, and to those men, he looked foolish.

“I thought it would be hard to find a man mithing for tho many yearth,” a dark haired, bearded man lisped behind a large boulder.

Jaime released an uncomfortable smile, hoping the man didn’t know who he was. It didn’t work.

“Get the Kingthlayer,” the man said, lisps and all. Jaime’s heart dropped, wishing himself alone with the woman of Tarth. It wasn’t exactly his luckiest day with fleas and bandits finding their way into his life, but he’d take back the flea and woman problems any day.

A different man walked up, grabbing Jaime by the bare arm. “A good thing we found you before your father, although I would like to watch him shit himself at the sight of a dead son returning.”

Mentions of his father gave Jaime an idea. Jaime was a Lannister, although, from a different time. Families meant everything, he might as well use it. “Let us go, I’m sure my father will pay you whatever you want,” Jaime said, as if he offered the horde of men a favor. 

Instead of widening their eyes in delight at the mention of money, they sneered. Their teeth looked worse up close— stench even more grotesque.

“I have a hundred stags,” Brienne said behind him. 

“We’ll take that for a start, m’lady,” another man replied.

A different man joined in and said, “Then we’ll have your cunt.” 

_Gods, what a name._ Unable to hide his offense, Jaime scowled at the man who continued to insult Brienne. 

The man said with a smile, “It can’t be as ugly as the rest of you.”

Jaime came from a different time, one with far less crudeness and blatant threats of rape— or so Jaime hoped. In spite of how much he hated the maid from Tarth, she didn’t deserve to be gang raped. Jaime glanced back at his previous captor to see her face of stone. Unafraid. _A fool to not defend herself._ Out of instinct, Jaime said, “You will not, she’s… to be married.” He thought of the right word. “Betrothed.” 

Brienne scowled, blushed and fixed her eyes to the water below her. Men howled in laughter, louder than before. They joked about the lucky guy, making her blush saturate. An annoying sight. _The damn woman is too transparent._ She painted every emotion as clear as day on her wretched face. As they forced his shirt on him and bound him back to back with Brienne on a horse, Jaime wondered if he did more harm than good.

With such a close taste of freedom, Jaime slumped against Brienne’s awkward, muscular back. His seat swayed along with her until one of them jerked against the other. They would never get along, even as joined captives. _This can’t get any worse._ The men, now a dozen or more, cheered and sang along their journey on the primitive road… a song about a bear and maid.

Jaime rolled his eyes and whispered, “Here’s a damn song you know. Happy?” 

She turned her head to whisper back, “All my life, I’ve been hearing: Jaime Lannister. What a brilliant swordsman.”

“I’ve been out of practice for years, almost my whole life!”

“And I’m a woman and I was still beating you,” she said. Jaime glowered. The woman continued, “Maybe you were as good as people said. Once. Maybe people just love to overpraise a well known name.”

Her sarcasm cut deep, even she knew nothing of his true identity. He wasn’t the Jaime Lannister she heard about _all her life_ , and for once, he felt… jealous. He couldn’t live up to the warrior’s shadow and reputation, and it _ate_ at him. _How in Seven Hells can I get out of this and go home? Back to hot showers, massages and mobile phones..._

Jaime used his heel to kick their horse into a trot. Sitting deeper in their saddle, the horse stopped when they reached the leader’s horse. Jaime stared at the man. A thick, cracked tongue stuck out between his bushel of beard. 

After clearing his throat, Jaime relaxed his clenched fist to shake the man’s hand, but rope tied Jaime still. _Do men even shake hands now?_ Persuading men turned out harder than he thought, but he could do it. “I’ve hit my head a few times on my travels and I seem to forget who you are,” Jaime said, proud of himself for using the amnesia trope, but disappointed for not using it earlier. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to use the excuse for much longer.

“Lord Vargo Hoat, but you wouldn’t know me from before, now Lord of Harrenhal,” Vargo said as he slobbered into his beard. If they were on their way to Harrenhal, Jaime could suggest the Isle of Faces as a quick pit stop.

“Gold,” Jaime said, “you like gold, yes?” Brienne rested against him, quiet as ever.

“Yeth.”

“All the gold I own.” Jaime smiled. It wasn’t much, but he loved exaggerating. “I can give you all of it on our way to King’s Landing. I found a large treasure in Essos and I’ve stored it somewhere on the Isle of Faces. That isn’t too far, is it? Take us there and you’ll have it for yourself.” 

Brienne’s face turned, likely to glare at him. Jaime was in no mood for her scolding. He ignored her. 

“Do you take me for a turncloak?” Vargo said amidst a cheeky smile.

“I take you for a smart man.”

“I would be a great fool to believe the promitheth of an oathbreaker like you,” he said, ending Jaime’s hope of persuasion with a silent nod towards a walking soldier, who held back Brienne and Jaime’s horse as Vargo continued marching on.

After their horse resumed walking, Jaime leaned his head back against Brienne while she whispered, “Is every word you say a lie, Kingslayer?” 

_Truth begins in lies, woman._

Everyone’s lack of trust eroded him from the inside out. In a way, he was used to the suspicion. In another time, he deserved it. The entire world blamed him for murdering a young family in a car accident. The entire world saw him as a drug addict. For years, he lied, snuck around and conned doctors to feed his addiction. He liked to pretend that the drugs covered up his problems. But his problems only increased when the drugs ran out. The idea of addiction hadn’t even crossed his mind until he suffered from withdrawal for the first time, and he ignored it harder from that point on. Jaime relived his anxiety, chills and racing heart. Until the accident, he would do anything but admit he had a problem. Jaime flashed through memories of pain: his muscles feeling like someone tore them apart— insides twisted and squeezed until he couldn’t breathe and panic attacks that paralyzed him. _No, don’t think about that now. You’re lucky. Lucky you’re sober. Lucky you’re alive._ Jaime took in a deep breath as he tried his best to humor himself out of his spiraling thoughts. _At least there aren’t pills in ancient Westeros._

At night, after hours of riding, they set themselves up in an old and run down sept. Jaime wasn’t a religious man by any means, but the dark place resembled a distorted form of beauty. But when men started to swarm around Brienne after dinner, all beauty washed away. By the sounds of their voices and breathing, he could tell what they aimed to do. Jaime’s mouth ran bone dry. 

“I’ll take her first,” one man said. Jaime glanced over to see them untie Brienne from her pillar. 

She stood taller than everyone and with her chin held high. “I am Brienne of Tarth,” she said, not admitting fear. “Lady Catelyn Stark commanded me to deliver Ser Jaime to his brother at King’s Landing.”

“Catelyn Stark’s a treasonous cunt. Everyone in Westeros is looking for the Kingslayer, no one said shit about you,” the man said.

Another man shouted, “You’re the big bitch who killed her king!”

“I did no such thing,” Brienne said. She fought a losing battle.

“We have two Kingslayers, then!” he replied, grinning towards Jaime. 

The accusation shocked Jaime, even angered him, until several men pushed her along. With help, men forced her to sept’s entrance. Jaime winced as they told her she was only making it worse, and they needed to go somewhere dark and private outside. Jaime’s heart broke, more than it already had. No woman deserved rape.

_You see her when you close your eyes_  
_Maybe one day you’ll understand why_  
_Everything you touch surely dies_

It was too much.

“You know who she is, don’t you?” Jaime said to Vargo, who sat nearby and nibbled a roasted birds’ thigh.

With his large mouth, he smacked his lips, waited and said, “Thome big dumb bith from who careth where. I’ve never been with a woman that big.”

Jaime saw his ignorance as an opportunity while men shouted for Brienne to get down. This plan needed to work.

“She’s Brienne of Tarth. The Sapphire Isle. She’s betrothed, you know. Her father is paying her weight in sapphires as a... a…” Jaime couldn’t remember the old fashioned word— 

“A dowry?” Vargo asked.

Jaime smiled and nodded, gritting his teeth though Brienne’s distant struggle. He hoped the man felt proud, intelligent and compassionate enough to bite the bait.

“Well, jutht my luck he ithn’t here for her or the dowry,” Vargo replied with a smile as he returned to nibbling the bone.

_Shit._

In an instant, Jaime strained and squirmed against the pillar tied to him. He inhaled and let out a loud breath he held while Vargo lost interest. Brienne’s warrior cries made his ears bleed. “He is,” Jaime let out in a tense breath, regretting the words as they left his mouth. _Why do I even bother?_

Vargo stopped chewing and raised an eyebrow. 

Brienne’s screams became louder, and he could hear men yelling for her to stop. _Seven Hells, I don’t live in this world, lying about a betrothal is child’s play compared to what she’ll get tonight._ Jaime swallowed his pride and said, “I am betrothed to her. Have the dowry yourself when we get to King’s Landing. Have your men stop sexually assaulting her. Now.”

Vargo convulsed in amusement. The man stood and shook his head for a few seconds. “Bring her back here,” he called out to his men.

Relief warmed Jaime in a single breath.

“Thethual athaulting?” Vargo asked, never hearing the phrase before. He couldn’t pronounce it, either.

“Raped, defiled,” Jaime said with a smile, almost adding the word ruined, but he held himself back. Still, without believing in them, he thanked the Gods he wasn’t a woman.

“Fanthy wordth for a fanthy man,” Vargo said.

“I hated to read as a child. But my father forced me to study every evening before bed. Forced me play music, too. Hours, every day. I learned a lot of fancy words,” Jaime said, feeling more comfortable. Money really did influence people, and Jaime was relieved Vargo fell for it.

Brienne stumbled back in while men held her arms to her side. Jaime tried his best to ignore her, but he could feel her eyes burning holes into him as another man untied Jaime from his pillar. 

Free of restraint, Jaime grinned and followed Vargo. Smells of roasting meat in the room made his head ache.

When Jaime stood beside him, Vargo said, “I bet you did. And lucky for you, we have a thepton right over there for your wedding.” Vargo smiled and mocked Jaime’s words. “Now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, more butterfly effects.


	9. Chapter 9

_What a funny thought._ Jaime erupted into laughter, but quieted when Brienne stared as if Vargo was serious. _Poor thing._ Jaime’s mind changed when Vargo pointed at an old, balding man snoring next to an altar. Reality hit Jaime. There _was_ a septon, and they _were_ in a sept. _How fucking far am I willing to sing this false song?_

A man walked towards the septon, prompting Jaime to say, “I mean, he’s asleep, let’s not rush this.” His heightened nerves begged him to tell them to stop. _I don’t want to marry her!_

“But I thought you were betrothed? I could very well have one of my men marry her inthead. Then have her ath our property… and the dowry,” Vargo said with a wet, slobbering smile.

_Shit._

Weddings weren’t supposed to be forced or fake. _This isn’t real, this isn’t really happening._ Jaime dissociated from the situation as sounds muffled into his ears and his vision tunneled in search of hope. His eyes fell on Brienne, who looked like she had been studying Jaime with earnest. Her expression lacked fear, which surprised him. Looking past all her ugly features, he recognized her strong innocence. _Would she do the same to protect me?_ He knew her answer. _Yes._ Brienne would do almost anything to fulfill her vow to Catelyn, whether it be forced marriage or rape. He sighed.

Trying to use her calm energy to breathe back the life into himself, Jaime nodded to Vargo.

The septon woke middream, muttering a prayer while his dog shook itself awake. As the dog stretched its neck, the old man groaned and grumbled. The sept quieted, but Jaime’s mind kept singing. _This isn’t real. I don’t belong here._ His lover said they would never marry, so he expected to be a bachelor for the rest of his life. Even if this marriage was a farce, the idea of entertaining such an idea bothered Jaime’s moral core. He reminded himself he’d rather fake a marriage ceremony with the beast of a woman than hear her raped for hours. She would likely die. As consolation, he would be home soon, and he would forget all of this. Seven Hells, he would make a great song about this— 

“The Faith of the Seven?” the septon asked, having already walked over. He broke Jaime out of his thoughts. _No, I don’t believe._ But Jaime lied and nodded his head in agreement. He never imagined attending a wedding worse than his lover's, when _she_ married her husband. Jaime closed his eyes. She looked so beautiful in that white dress, and even her groom looked handsome when he smiled. That man stood where Jaime should have been. Jaime wondered why he even attended her wedding, transfixed as he watched her dress float into the salty beach breeze. He remembered relapsing quickly after the reception. Not that he was sober for long anyway...

The septon pulled him out of his memory and beckoned them over towards the altar, which rested between a wall of torches surrounding a large seven pointed star. Brienne stood beside him, wearing torn, dirty and dark fabric. _What a beautiful bride._ Jaime glanced down at his own rags. _I’m as handsome as I’ll ever be._ Gestured to face her, Jaime turned towards her after a pause. Her cheeks bore fresh scratches from her recent struggle. Jaime winced. For a moment, it felt like only Brienne and Jaime. And only for a moment did Jaime wish he could go back to the cold, wet nights when he agitated her. Now, she hesitated, and it bothered him. Concern on her face gave him more guilt than he thought possible. She hated him. She had no consent in this. She didn’t want to marry some old, weak, drug addict. Pain sprouted onto his body from his mind.

“Jaime Lannister from House Lannister and Brienne of Tarth. You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection,” the raspy septon’s voice said.

Jaime knew of no cloak or what to do. Laughter chimed around them, followed by rough hushes. A man threw a small wool blanket into Jaime’s face. The embarrassing moment distracted him. His hands held the blanket, full of holes large enough to see raw and open wounds wrapped around his wrists.

One of Vargo's men said, “Which one’s the bride?” 

Snickers erupted among everyone except Jaime, Brienne and the septon. A stern glare from the septon put the small crowd in their place while Jaime studied Brienne again. Her concern turned to sorrow. With a cough and a nod, the septon encouraged Jaime to place the cloak on Brienne’s back. Awkwardly, he placed the blanket on her broad shoulders. Jaime’s fingers could feel her quiver under his hands. He stepped back to his spot and fixed his eyes on the seven pointed star. If it weren’t for everyone, the setting could almost be described as romantic. It could have been a small wedding, with more grins than frowns. _Wouldn’t it be nice if the nervous trembling came from the anticipation of nightfall rather than hatred or rape._

The septon stretched out for Jaime’s left hand and Brienne’s right hand. They both paused before reaching forward. Jaime’s warm hand clasped Brienne’s chilly palm. _You can do this._ He wanted to whisper those words to her, yet he needed to believe those words first. Her hand quaked. In an attempt to calm her, Jaime tightened his grip. She grimaced. In response, he softened his grip, wanting to encourage her. She grimaced harder. Jaime gave up. _Just get this the fuck over with. I want it done. I want to forget this. I’m not really here. This isn’t real._

While they held timid hands, the septon wrapped a long cloth piece around their clasped palms. “We stand here in the sights of Gods and men to witness the union of man and wife.” 

Brienne’s heavy eyes locked on Jaime’s. Once easy to read, she appeared foreign to him. He didn’t understand her or her virtuous blue eyes reflecting the torches behind him. He couldn’t comprehend if she felt gratitude or resentment. _Hide away inside._ He despised every moment, but his mind raced to explain why. He’d do it again if it meant saving anyone from being raped. But it felt so… sacred. 

_In a little while  
I'll be gone  
The moment's already passed  
Yeah it's gone  
And I'm not here  
This isn't happening  
I'm not here  
I'm not here_

“In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity. They are one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever. Look upon each other and say the words.”

Jaime knew this part. The most romantic part of any wedding, in his opinion. “I am hers,” he said in a calm voice, surprising himself. He gazed at Brienne with a mixture of awe and apprehension. She matched his words, harmonizing his deep octave. _Has her voice always been this feminine?_ Like a duet together, they continued, “And she is mine. From this day until the end of my days.” _I’ll be traveling a lot of days soon, just wait._

The septon unbinded their hands while Jaime lost the power to ignore the roaring laughter surrounding him. He was used to cheering, clapping and shouting, but not dissonant mockery. It hurt, not only to hear it, but it also tortured him not to join in. The joke was about him.

“Thepton Meribald, betht be on your way early tonight,” Vargo said to the septon, who appeared oblivious to the fact these men almost raped Brienne. Meribald almost radiated more innocence than her. _No, it’s not possible. She’s the most innocent thing I’ve seen._

Laughs increased in a crescendo when the septon and his dog exited. It felt like hours, but it likely only lasted a few minutes. Jaime dreaded one particular topic more than time travel, dowries or eating.

“What about consummation?” a young man asked with a despicable smile worthy of a good slap across the face. 

_Fuck me._ “Let’s save the fun for later,” Jaime said with a glare. His stomach grumbled with anxiety and emptiness.

“Why wait?”

“Because my father hosts the bedding ceremony. You’re more than welcome to attend.” _If you think you’ll make it out alive_ Jaime sent a smug smile as his heart pounded faster. His racing pulse reminded him of withdrawals. He did not just go through all of that embarrassing effort just to rape her himself.

“Now, now, we have thomething better,” Vargo intervened, guiding Jaime away from Brienne as a couple men tied her to the same pillar without issue. _Thank the Gods._ All he had to do was marry her to protect her. Her pillar was the safest place in that sept, and hopefully he could speak to Vargo as an equal— man to man. Vargo smiled at Jaime. “Partridge, my lord? Ath a wedding gift?”

Laughs echoed around them while Jaime nodded his head. He tried to ignore their ridicule. “That would be wonderful.” Jaime smirked and glanced at Brienne, who stared in shock and jealousy. Jaime welcomed any and all types of food. Avoiding a consummation was a huge victory to him, and she seemed safe from rape. Jaime now only worried about his aching and empty stomach.

Vargo smirked and brought Jaime over to a table. Sore from weeks of being someone’s prisoner, Jaime sat and let out a loud, relaxed sigh. Immediately, men spread out his arms, chest and face against the table. Jaime gasped as the air left his chest. A large blade appeared towards his face as someone pushed his cheek into the wood.

“You think you’re the thmartest man there ith,” Vargo spat, slobbering drool on Jaime’s cheek. He pressed the edge of the blade against Jaime’s eye. “And everyone alive hath to bow, and thcrape and lick your bootth.”

_He wants to scare me. He’s no threat._ “If my father—” 

“And if you get in any trouble, all you’ve got to do ith thay my father. And all your troubleth are gone.” He pressed the blade deeper, threatening to pierce through Jaime’s eye.

“Don’t,” Jaime muttered, but said nothing more.

“Have you got thomething to thay? Careful, you don’t want to thay the wrong thing.”

Jaime’s breathing became shallow, uneasy and weak. _I want my eye._ He knew any more words would agitate the man. _This isn’t real._

“You’re nothing without your daddy. Your daddy ain’t here. Never forget that,” Vargo said through his sopping, wet tongue over Jaime’s ear. He pulled back the blade, giving Jaime a chance to breathe a quiet sigh of relief. This man wanted to scare him or make him piss himself. He was Jaime Lannister, and no lisping fool could make him scream. _This isn’t real._

“Here. Thith ought to help you remember.” The flickering light of the torches danced on the edge of the blade as it came shivering down, almost too fast to see. And Jaime screamed.


	10. Chapter 10

_This is real._

The metallic taste from biting through his cheeks stained his tongue. Jaime tried to leave his own body, but pain dragged him back into smothering reality. It stung. It screamed. It demanded his attention, and demanded him to die. Men held him down and burned the stump to stop it from bleeding. Jaime couldn’t get the smell of his own burning flesh out of his head. Jaime wished the septon hadn’t left, so Jaime could pray for the first time in many, many years. Pain hurt more than he could imagine, but it compared nothing to the loss of his identity. Without his hand, he had no music, no melody, and no purpose. Jaime had nothing in this barbaric world and yet he lost everything anyway. Jaime, no longer talkative, became a silent ghost.

Following a sleepless night, like the day before, men tied Brienne and Jaime together on a horse. His stiff, dismembered hand dangled from his neck. Forever lodged in suffering, Jaime dozed in and out of consciousness. He fainted many times— a falling arrow without direction.

“The lovers. T’would be cruel to separate the good knight and his lady,” someone said. 

“Ah, but which one is the knight and which one is the lady?” Laughs followed.

Jaime withered away in mind, body and soul with each passing day. Pus, blood and clear liquid oozed out of his stumped wrist. His severed hand decomposed in front of his eyes and under his nose, day and night. Jaime didn’t beg— except for water. They gave him horse piss, causing him to vomit mixed bile all over himself and Brienne. They ordered her to clean it up and out of his beard while Jaime existed in a delusional fog.

He found a surge of energy one morning at breakfast. Jaime’s left hand grabbed a sword and haphazardly swung it around himself in a circle. Several men surrounded him in fear. _Yes, be afraid, I will, personally, watch all of your vicious, slow deaths— one by one._ A man kicked him down from behind. Jaime struggled to grab the sword again as he sank in mud. Vargo towered over Jaime, kicked him in the ribs and stomped on his dying wrist. Jaime fainted.

_Lying on the ground  
Feeling like a dyin’ man  
No reality  
Fading memories  
Following the crowd  
Coulda been a stronger man_

Later, without Vargo in sight, three men approached Jaime and Brienne’s part of camp. He pulled himself present to hear them talking about who would rape her first. To prepare her, Jaime leaned over and kicked Brienne awake. She glared at him until she caught his urgent expression. By that point, the men already settled their argument.

The largest man walked over to Brienne and started undoing her restraint to the tree.

“Stop,” Jaime said. He sounded weak after days of wasting away. Brienne sent him a painful look, albeit brief.

“You haven’t consummated the dumb bitch yet, why can’t I?”

Jaime closed his eyes and tried to clench the fist he no longer had. It burned. The pain added to his anger, but his fragility dominated his volume. “You’re funny. I have a riddle for you. Why do you care?” Jaime paused and inhaled. _They took away a hand, not my lungs._ “SAPPHIRES,” he shouted out as loudly as he could. Thankfully, Vargo heard and walked over in a fuss.

“Thee’th not to be touched. Thee’th worth a bag of thapphireth!” Vargo said. From that point on, Vargo entrusted two guards to prevent further rape attempts.

At dinner, which Jaime never ate, Brienne scooted closer to Jaime as he found himself lost in despondent images and void of music. He stared off into his own death.

“Eat,” she whispered.

Tempted to yell at her for interrupting his thoughts, Jaime bit his tongue and slumped over. He couldn’t feel hunger anymore.

“What are you doing?” She interrupted again.

“Dying.” 

“You can’t die. You need to live. To take revenge.”

“I don’t care.”

“Coward. Misfortune and you’re giving up?”

“Mis— Misfortune?” Jaime couldn’t believe what she said. The air compressed around him so tightly he could feel himself imploding from the inside out. He was a cripple. He’d lose his career and his fame. He’d never play a piano again, strum more than a pathetic chord again— the list went on and on. If the Gods were just, he’d die before he lost anything else.

“You lost your hand,” she said, as if losing it meant nothing.

“I _was_ that hand.”

She chuckled once. Jaime’s jaw clenched as a vein started to throb in his neck. She continued, “You have a taste— a taste of the real world. Where people have important things taken away from them.”

Jaime averted his eyes while her words sank into him. He couldn’t remember the last time Brienne spoke so much. _Worrying is like praying for what you don’t want to happen._ The woman... was right. He couldn’t die. Jaime cleared his throat and reached down to eat the stale piece of bread soaked in saltless broth. Once, he would have never eaten such disgusting food, but Jaime was no coward. Delicious calories seeped into his blood and warmed him from the inside out. Feeding himself with his awkward left hand, it was like trying to learn how to swim without water.

“Why did you help me? There’s no dowry, no betrothal with you,” she asked in a different tone.

He chewed, swallowed and waited. He made eye contact with her across the fire as he said, “I wanted to hear him say ‘thapphireth.’ Good thing for you I lie so well.” Much to his disappointment, she didn’t laugh.

“I thank you,” she said.

“You lie just as well. You’ve killed a king and never even told me about it.” Jaime picked up another piece of bread.

“I did no such thing.”

“Yes, yes, you’ve said that before. You despised him?”

“Gods, no,” she said, offended. Jaime studied her reaction, which transformed into fond reminiscence. “King Renly was the best king Westeros could have hoped for... And I couldn’t save him.” There was something different about her response. Her chin lifted in pride and a smile tugged on her lips. For the first time, Jaime saw the woman’s heart. Jaime guessed she had no room in her heart but for Renly: a dead man and a pity.

“Why kill him?” he asked with food in his mouth. The curiosity of a woman killing her love fascinated him.

“It was not me. There was a…” she whispered, “shadow. I know how mad it sounds but… I was helping Renly into his armor, and the candles blew out, and there was blood everywhere. It was Stannis, Lady Catelyn said. His… his shadow. I had no part in it, on my honor. I will avenge King Renly and kill Stannis, I swear it.”

A shadow. Laughable. Everything sounded laughable compared to losing his hand. Jaime chuckled to himself as he remembered the woman bringing up magic a week earlier. _Maybe magic can bring me back my hand._ Brienne glared at him with nostrils flared, and she proceeded to sulk and ignore him for the remainder of the night.

They arrived to Harrenhal the next morning. Jaime should have been happy— he was so close to his goal, but a fever overtook him. Jaime arrived less stable than the crumbling castle around him. 

After stumbling down to his knees and getting kicked over into mud, Vargo slobbered, “Lord Bolton, I give you the Kingthlayer.”

“Pick him up, Vargo,” a deep voice said. 

Jaime breathed through the pain, grunting slightly while Vargo yanked him to standing. Jaime opened his eyes to see a balding, short haired man. He appeared older than him, but much, much cleaner.

“You’ve lost a hand,” Lord Bolton said.

“No, I have it right here,” Jaime said. 

The man refused to smile, even when Vargo opened his mouth to say in lisps, “Thend it to hith father.”

“You’ll hold your tongue unless you want to lose it,” Lord Bolton threatened as he snatched the rotting hand away. He forced Vargo to take it. Vargo accepted the hand, surrendered his disgusting tongue and remained silent behind Jaime. Lord Bolton looked down at Brienne, who still knelt. “Cut her free,” Bolton said. “Apologies my lady, you’re under my protection now.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Brienne’s feminine voice contrasted with everything else Jaime heard bombarding his ears: mud, horses, metal, pounding pulse. He replayed her words, for reasons he didn’t know, and he tried his best to determine what musical key she was. _D minor?_ Her voice echoed in his head until Lord Bolton stole him out of his own harmonic daydream.

“The Stranger fooled us all. Welcome back to Westeros, Jaime Lannister.”

_You and your men will meet the Stranger when I’m done with you._ Jaime chuckled to himself, wobbling on his legs as he heard the man say, “Take him to Qyburn.”


	11. Chapter 11

An odd sense of vulnerability swarmed Jaime when he couldn’t see Brienne. Despite him hating her, fabricating a marriage with her and risking his life for her, Jaime still wanted to protect her. _Why do I care?_ She possessed a rare incorruptible ability, and he missed the honesty she brought with her. Except, at this point of his travels, he learned the hard way that he couldn’t always get what he wanted. He searched deep inside himself for strength, answers and will to survive. 

In rehab, they told him of the bottomless well. It had basis in many religions, which Jaime refused subscribing to, but his counselor reminded him its relevance nonetheless. _The well is used, but never used up._ The well represented infinite possibilities, and no matter what struggles he encountered, he could always overcome the problem. Each drop of water taken from the well was instantly replaced. Water represented anything and everything: money, creativity, sobriety, food, thoughts. As long as Jaime possessed a beating heart, he had a fighting chance to be happy. _If only the well could get me a hand._ He closed his eyes in spite of his own cynicism. He clenched a hand that didn’t exist anymore...

Jaime heard a door creak open. A man entered, and he wore a dark cloak. A wizard. Qyburn. As the man walked over, Jaime saw the man’s face sour at the smell of Jaime’s rotten flesh. Oddly, Jaime grew accustomed to it. Weak, yet defiant, Jaime leaned across the table in front of him.

“Are you a doctor?” Jaime asked. 

Qyburn paused his fearless inspection of the rot and arched a curious eyebrow. “I trained to be a maester, but the Citadel refused me.”

Jaime blinked, remembering the Citadel. In school, Jaime learned the Citadel had been burned and sacked during a war— almost all of the literature from ancient history destroyed over an argument. It explained why modern society knew so little about the past. 

“Corruption has spread throughout. The safest course of action would be to take the entire arm off,” the maester said.

Jaime’s teeth ground together. “Take your head off with it.”

“I can start by taking the corruption off.” 

The man wanted compromise, but Jaime sensed hesitation. Jaime nodded a single time.

“I have milk of the poppy,” Qyburn said.

Jaime’s heart stopped. 

No, it raced. 

Through imagination, bitter notes of the drug dissolved in his mouth. Warmth would spread through him, euphoria would return and time would stop. _You need this. It isn’t the same as pills, your body can handle it._ In an instant, he believed in the Stranger spoke within him. Jaime closed his eyes as the man repeated his question, as Jaime heard the Stranger whisper ‘yes’ in his ear.

_Little angel go away  
Come again some other day  
The devil has my ear today  
I’ll never hear a word you say_

Jaime closed his eyes. _’Coward.’_ He shook his head. “No,” Jaime said, clenching his remaining and imaginative hand into tight, painful fists.

“There will be pain.”

“I’ll scream.”

“Quite a bit of pain.”

“I’ll scream loudly.”

Jaime trembled before Qyburn even started. Milk of the Poppy was in that room— somewhere. Jaime knew, deep in his heart, he would die. His breathing would slow down just short enough for life, and he would pass in a blissful suffocation. _I am no coward._ When Qyburn started to pick away at the decayed flesh, Jaime yelled and pounded the table with his good fist. He passed out for a time and awoke to Qyburn pouring boiling wine over the wound. It smelled horrible— a mixture of fruit, earth and death. He blacked out again and woke up to think he had died and gone to the Seven Hells.

After Qyburn sewed Jaime’s stump, he saw his right arm end before his wrist. He was less than half the man he used to be.

“Did they harm the woman, too?” Qyburn asked.

“No,” Jaime said, sounding more relieved than he felt, “as far as I know.”

“I will ask after her. What is this woman to you?”

“My knight.” _And my wife._ Jaime laughed, and it hurt.

While receiving bandages, he struggled to eat a handful of dried fruit. Qyburn ushered a man in to help Jaime descend to the baths. The seven weeks worth of his adventures needed to be cleansed. He’d be lucky to return home so soon, as he was sure he needed antibiotics or some pain relief that wasn’t… opioids.

Low ceilings of the baths gave him a terrifying and comforting sense of claustrophobia. His stomach turned in nausea from the sudden onslaught of sugar. Jaime’s brows beaded in sweat, both from hot, humid bath air and newfound separation from opium. He wanted it. Needed it. _The well is used, but never used up._ “Help me out of this shit,” Jaime insisted to the man next to him. The servant kept his mouth shut and helped Jaime take off his tunic. “Now get out,” Jaime said. The man listened and retreated.

Jaime finally lifted his head to see Brienne in one of the baths, sulking and hiding underneath the water except her head. Even amidst his fever and glazed eyes, he could see her arms laced over her chest and thighs crossed. She never looked so small before. For the first time, he was jealous of her. She was clean, young and had _both_ hands. Dirt blanketed his chest and abdomen, and when Jaime glanced down, he swore he didn’t recognize himself. He lost weight.

Jaime untied his trousers and smallclothes with his pathetic and sore left hand. His clothes left a small tap on the wet stone as they fell. Naked, Jaime staggered over towards Brienne’s tub. 

“There’s another tub!” Brienne called out, covering her eyes and sinking into the water further.

“Why wouldn’t I bathe with my wife?” Jaime said. Of course, he didn’t want to bathe with her, but he believed his survival depended on it. He entered the bath, one step at a time, and struggled to hold his right stump above the water. He wanted to relax before he started cleaning himself. His persistent fever made it hard to concentrate and humidity made it hard to breathe.

Meanwhile, Brienne sat at the far corner and glared daggers at him. 

“Don’t worry,” he said in a raspy voice, hoarse from screaming. “I’m not interested.” Jaime repeated her words from what felt like many nights ago. She continued to scowl and he wondered if he believed her. Perhaps he needed to be more direct and honest. Jaime said, “If I faint, pull me out. I don’t want to die in a bathtub.”

“Why should I care how you die?”

Jaime attempted a scoff, but no sound escaped him. She insulted him. He insulted her, many times before, so maybe he deserved it. He grew used the fact that no one loved him. People hated him in this world and the next. The only circumstance keeping him alive was her honor.

“You swore a vow, remember?” Jaime grabbed a brush and started to scrub himself. “Two vows, in fact. Bring me to King’s Landing and be my wife, yet you’ve failed miserably to do either. You should have married your king and killed me instead of him—” 

She stood up, up and up. Hot water rippled against him like a wave of guilt. Jaime froze, except his eyes. The once shy woman turned into a brave warrior as she stood naked in front of him. Gravity pulled water droplets down her thighs: powerful, pale and untouched by the sun. Between her thighs rested a bushel of hair. Jaime averted his eyes up. He followed the arc of her obliques, revealing a much curvier figure than he expected. With her arms down and tensed at her sides, her chest stared back at him. His cock stirred under water. Her breasts were small but adorned with inviting and glistening pink nipples. His eyes lifted, noticing the same shade of pink on her lips, which frowned down at him. Jaime turned his head away and for the first time, he blushed. 

“I’m sorry,” he said in defeat, “that was... uncalled for. Forgive me. You’ve somehow kept me alive in this strange place.”

“Don’t you mock me,” she said as a warning, still standing. She knew she had power over him and he didn’t blame her for using it. She could kill him in an instant, with or without a sword— he was sure of that.

“I’m apologizing. I’m sick of fighting— I want a truce,” he said. A headache pounded within him as he pleaded. He adjusted his seat and glanced up at her. _Why in Seven Hells are you still standing?!_ His nervous eyes danced around until she spoke again.

“You need trust to have a truce,” she said with a bitter tone. _Why do I want her to like me, of all people?_ She hated him still, and it hurt more than anything. _Because I can’t alienate the one person who is there for me._

“I trust you,” he replied. He meant it.

Slowly, she dipped back into the water. She never responded with words. Brienne’s chin lifted as a snub and her shoulders rested back, ready to protect herself from the monster that sat in front of her. He recognized scorn, no matter the world. After the car accident, the public hated Jaime Lannister. Some people hated him even more when he served no time in jail or prison. _Good looks will get you anything._ Jaime struggled to breathe for a moment. Painful headaches blinded him as his thoughts bled into his words. “You don’t trust me, and I don’t blame you. No one should ever trust me. I’ve lived a double life before and I’m living a double life again. I’m not from here,” he paused, lost in thought but unable to silence himself. “Have you heard of milk of the poppy?”

“Of course,” her annoyed voice responded.

“For years, I watched my friends and friends of friends use it. My girlfriend, who used it once, said, ‘Try it. It feels better than anything you can imagine.’ After I had a few drinks, I gave in, stupidly. It really _was_ better. Better than eating. Better than sex. As if time stopped and everything was perfect. Whenever I would have a bad day, I ran to it. It became my friend, my lover and then my abuser. I always thought the pleasurable feelings would last forever, but it doesn’t. I used it every night to help me sleep. I always had the most vivid dreams…”

“I can’t even explain what it feels like to be addicted. It’s a compulsion I couldn’t stop and my mind convinced myself and others I had it under control. But it was the other way around. It controlled me. Slowly, it ruined my life. I started using it during the day and then as soon as I woke up. No one really knew I had a problem until the accident— that poor, poor family— I would be rotting away in prison right now if it weren’t for my father. He wasn’t worried about me, he was just worried about his reputation. He didn’t want a drug addict son. He didn’t want a murderous son. Only my fans loved me. Those millions of people compared nothing to _her_... But even them, even _her_ … no one trusts me. I’m just one mistake away from dying. Or one mistake from killing— It’s hard staying clean because of someone who isn’t here. No, I became clean because of her. Everything is for her. And she isn’t here.”

Jaime breathed and closed his eyes, trying to picture her face. For some reason, a fog existed in his mind. He couldn’t see her.

“For Cersei?” Brienne asked, barely above a whisper.

“Gods, no. Cersei is as dead to me as I am to you. Cersei died when I was nine.”

“You will not earn trust speaking cryptic words, Kingslayer.”

“They’re not cryptic words, they’re the truth. Believe me. I know about the plague because it’s killed millions of people. I know King’s Landing will eventually be burned to the ground and renamed into Ashlanding. I know how to play instruments because swords are useless where I’m from. They use guns, bombs and computers. I’ve never held a sword in my life. I don’t know any of _your_ songs because no one sings them anymore. I’ve flown beyond Asshai and back. I know Tarth—” he stopped. 

Her eyes widened. She was eager, anxious and uneasy.

“Tarth will become a desolate island,” he spoke in pain, grimacing through the words, “and no one will live there.”

Brienne didn’t believe him, but tears welled in her eyes regardless.

“I know this,” he continued while he closed his eyes, “because… I’m from the future. Hundreds and hundreds of years in the future… I have the same name as that man, the same looks, the same family— You think I’m mad, don’t you?”

“You must be,” Brienne replied, hiding an emotion he couldn’t interpret.

“I wrote a presentation on Tarth in school,” Jaime said as he shivered from chills. “Most of the island will get destroyed by a large volcano, similarly to how Valyria died out. The eruption will cave in on itself and sea water will seep in and create the most beautiful coral reefs you could possibly imagine. Evenfall Hall is sacred ground, because its people were buried alive in ash. It’s one of the few places that modern Westeros could see a glimpse into historical daily life.”

By that point, Brienne had already exited the bath. She wrapped herself in a small towel and Jaime grew restless with delirium.

Jaime continued, “Evenfall Hall was one of the few places in Westeros built in the image of a constellation. The Moonmaid. And the top tower is specifically designed to align with the yearly event of the red planet inside the Moonmaid.”

Jaime turned to see Brienne, wrapped in a towel looking ridiculous. Thick legs, broad shoulders and barely any breasts. She stared— and said nothing. She angered him. Jaime wanted to growl, and instead said, “You’re speechless now? Come on, curse at me, kiss me, or call me a liar. _Something._ ”

Water trickled down her legs, pooling at her feet. Brienne blinked and said, “The red wanderer… I’ve dreamt of building such a tower…” She paused. “I haven’t told anyone.” Her eyes confronted him. “If this is true, why haven’t you told anyone?”

By that point, Jaime felt cold, yet he burned from the inside out. He trembled. The solitude and pain soaked underneath his skin but out of his hand. He threw his head back to search for dry air and found none. “And get murdered because I’m insane? It’s the same reason you don’t openly talk about that shadow. This is all some cruel joke from the witch or the Gods. I need to go to the Isle of Faces. I don’t belong here. _I need to go home._ ” 

A fierce tremor overtook him and he tried to stumble out of the bath. In the process, his right stump jabbed a side of the stone wall. Brienne caught him before he fell, and she held him close to her cold, clammy skin as she said, “Guards! The Kingslayer!” 

_Kingslayer is not my name._ “Jaime. My name is Jaime,” he muttered as he struggled for air. 

Gently, she held him. Brienne stood over him, naked with her towel pooled at the stone floor. Qyburn and guards entered, all surrounding him while his eyes blurred into darkness.


	12. Chapter 12

Jaime awoke in a dark room, lit by firelight, with someone tugging at his wrist. Startled, Jaime lunged up before the pain in his stump overtook him. He recoiled back onto a covered straw bed.

“Keep still,” said a familiar female voice.

When his clenched eyes softened and opened, he saw himself already halfway dressed. He wore smallclothes and a loose tunic. Brienne knelt beside him. It dawned on him that he woke up while she dressed and cared for him. Unlike himself, half dressed, she was in an awkward crimson dress. She leaned over and looped trousers around each of his feet.

The silence bothered him. Jaime said, “Did I miss our consummation? How good was I?” 

She ignored him and he smiled for her. Envying her, he said, “I see _you_ don’t need any help dressing.” He was a cripple. He couldn’t even dress himself without blacking out.

“I made sure to dress myself first,” she answered, but she refused to make any eye contact.

“Why? I’ve already seen all of it.”

She stopped midway up his thigh to glare at him. Her hands rested on his thighs. What little skin he felt was much warmer than it felt in the bathhouse. Brienne’s body bent over him in a way that he could only interpret as suggestive. _I’m crazy to be thinking this._ Just the mere image of Brienne going down on him was enough stimulation for an unintentional erection. _Those lips._ Jaime lifted and brushed her away from him with his good hand. _It’s been too long. I'm not myself._

Brienne creased her brows and leaned back. She narrowed her eyes. She asked, “You’re not the Kingslayer, but you’ve— murdered, in your time?”

Jaime clenched his fist and jaw into a tight knot. _I don’t want to talk about it._ He sighed. “You must enjoy hearing and watching the worst moments of my life. First, I was thrown back in time with _you_. Second, my _hand_ —” 

“I enjoy no such things.”

Jaime swallowed and glared at her, but her eyes of judgement wounded him. He hated reliving his mistakes, especially the car accident. Jaime blinked away. Speaking as if she was in the press, he said, “It was an accident. And a mistake. I won’t say anything more.”

Brienne nodded, to his surprise. Their standoff transitioned into a song of silence, where Jaime finished dressing himself.

At supper that night, Lord Bolton sat across from Jaime and Brienne. When served plates of warm roast meat, potatoes and vegetables, Jaime’s famished feeling amplified. Jaime ignored the man’s heavy stare while he poked seared flesh with a knife. There was no point in cutting it, so Jaime hauled up the slab of meat on his fork and tore off chunks with his teeth. Brienne stared at him with disgust until Lord Bolton mentioned her clothes.

The conversation quickly turned to Robb Stark and Lord Bolton fixed his gaze on Jaime. “I should send you back to Robb Stark,” Bolton said. 

Jaime stopped eating. Brienne, still, hadn’t touched her plate. _Is he threatening me or bothering me?_ Jaime smirked. “Instead you’re talking to me.”

“Wars cost money. Many people would pay a great deal for you,” Bolton said. _A threat then._

“We both know who would pay the most,” Jaime said as he set his knife and meat down on his plate. Brienne’s posture said everything he needed to know. This man wasn’t a friend to her, and likely not to him either. Jaime wasn’t fond of politics, but if he had learned anything during his journey, he needed to act with care. Jaime lowered his chin to play the man’s game by threatening him back, “You’ll pay the most if you execute me.”

“You’re right,” Bolton agreed. “Perhaps the safest thing to do is to kill you both and burn your bodies.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Brienne grabbed the knife in front of her. _Calm down— unless you want us both killed._ Jaime reached out to hold her hand down. Thankfully, the warrior listened. “It would be,” Jaime said, “if you honestly believed my father wouldn’t find out about it.” 

Brienne glanced towards him, and Jaime refused to acknowledge her. Jaime didn’t know this man or his house, but he could sense a stubborn, strong man from a hundreds of years away. This man reminded Jaime of his father, and they had been arguing since Jaime came into this world.

Bolton displayed no fear and said, “King Robb is keeping your father quite busy. He doesn’t have time for anything else.” 

“He’ll make time for you,” Jaime said. 

Lord Bolton smirked.

And in that moment, Jaime knew he won. 

His hand abandoned Brienne’s as Lord Bolton said, “As soon as you’re well enough to travel, I will allow you to go to King’s Landing as restitution for the mistakes Vargo made. And you will swear to tell your father the truth, that I had nothing to do with your maiming.”

“Deal.” _That wasn’t so hard, was it?_ Lord Bolton squinted his eyes in confusion as Brienne kicked the side of Jaime’s leg. It frightened him at first, but he understood her message. “I swear,” Jaime corrected himself. 

Bolton lifted his chin, and leaned back in his chair with faint suspicion. 

Jaime added, “My lady, may our journey continue without another hitch—”

“Oh, she won’t be going with you.”

Jaime frowned. Bolton spoke as if she was property. As if she wasn’t right there, sitting with both of them.

Also frustrated, Brienne said, “I am charged with bringing Ser Jaime to—”

“You are charged with abetting treason,” Bolton said, firm and unmoving.

“I’m afraid I must insist,” Jaime said.

“You're in no place to insist on anything. I would have hoped you learned your lesson about overplaying your... position.”

Like little children in trouble, Brienne and Jaime remained uncomfortably quiet. Jaime never did finish his meal.

_If I could start again  
A million miles away  
I will keep myself  
I would find a way_

A week passed and Jaime healed well enough to travel. Qyburn and two hundred men prepared to escort them safely to King’s Landing. Jaime doubted he would get a chance to escape across the lake and go home. No one allowed him to walk down a hallway alone since guards followed him everywhere. With a healing right stump, Jaime didn’t want to push his luck as a fighter. _After King’s Landing, I’ll get a horse, food and head straight for the island._ Strange uneasiness ate away at him during his stay at Harrenhal. He never felt safe, and he was sure Brienne shared his belief. 

The night before their quest, Jaime asked to say goodbye to Brienne. It was the least he could do… after everything she did for him. Jaime held his breath as the guard knocked on the door for him. They waited. _Open the door._ His anxious nerves climaxed as the door swung open, and she was surprised to see him. His guard remained at the door while Jaime entered. Brienne surveyed him while he did the same to her room. Cold, humid air rushed past Brienne’s small fire, which barely illuminated anything. Her situation appeared far less privileged than what Lord Bolton provided him.

“I thought you were gone,” she said.

Jaime inhaled and sighed once. “Tomorrow.”

“Have they told you what they plan to do with me?” 

_Your voice changed._ Jaime turned to look at her. His lack of answers disturbed him, and so he avoided eye contact. “Not exactly. Just that you’ll stay here.” 

“With Vargo,” she said, her voice transformed into immense disappointment. 

Jaime couldn’t stand her judgement, regardless if her frustration was meant for someone else. His nervous thumb pressed on his knuckles. Jaime no longer averted his eyes from hers and soon regretted it. She stared straight through and into his soul. Her eyes, those damn eyes, sucked him in and joined him in solitude. _You’re just as alone in this time as I am._ Jaime couldn’t look away, and neither could she. _But I can tell that you don’t give a damn._ In her eyes, he saw innocence, integrity, bravery or a masterpiece of all three. She confused him. Opening up in a rare moment of compassion, Jaime said, “I really do owe you my life.” 

Her chin lifted up in honor, and then she stepped closer to him. The lack of space between them swarmed with tension. It didn't scare Brienne. Nothing did. She said, “When Catelyn Stark released you, we both made a promise to her. Now it’s your promise. You gave your word. Keep it, and consider the debt paid.”

Jaime's lips creased into a tight frown. No, that wasn’t his goal at all... He wanted to go to the Isle of Faces, and she knew that. Yet, to repay the debt he owed her, she chose a completely selfless request: a vow to another person. Brienne astonished him. _How can such an unfortunate woman be so incorruptible?_ Jaime opened his mouth to say no, but the words refused to leave his tightening throat. He couldn’t say no to her. Jealous of her dignity and in no mood to taunt, he said, “I will return the Stark girls to their mother. I swear.”

“Goodbye, Ser Jaime.”

Ser Jaime. His eyes narrowed beneath furrowing eyebrows until he realized she meant no mockery with that name. She truly meant it. He wasn’t a knight, but perhaps keeping an oath would bring him closer to becoming one. Jaime relaxed his brow, nodded and walked out with a lighter step than when he walked in. _She called me a ser. A knight. I could almost be a knight._


	13. Chapter 13

His throbbing wrist and running mind prevented sleep through most of the night. Fear overpowered anticipation of departure. Harrenhal buzzed amidst movement and preparations for travels, including Bolton and his men. Qyburn helped Jaime change bandages and clothes for the day’s ride. 

At daybreak, Harrenhal’s courtyard sang in Jaime’s ears: horses neighed, men coughed and mud splashed. Jaime’s eyes scarcely believed what they saw. Nothing, not even movie sets, compared to the rugged realness he soaked in. Most men around him walked and talked with smiles. Jaime frowned. _Maybe they’re excited to go home to mothers, wives or children. I have no mother, wife or children— but I have a home._

He shouldn’t have been so naive.

Every man glanced to a gate roaring open. Between several men pushing and pulling themselves away, a large brown bear stepped out. Jaime froze. With chains strapped left and right, several men taunted the bear with a slab of meat ahead of its nose. Jaime recoiled from the sight of the beast and sounds of their cheers. His body planted itself behind a horse for protection. Over the horse’s mane, Jaime watched the beast’s breath extend out in a cloud of angry smoke. His heart continued to pound even when they ushered the bear across the courtyard and into another gate.

Someone asked Jaime, “You ever seen a bear fuck a person, Kingslayer?”

_Does he mean me?_ Even with the threat gone, Jaime still felt like prey. Some men chuckled while another started singing “Bear and the Maiden Fair.” Jaime wasn’t their target— Brienne was. His eyes fell to the mud as he wondered how anyone could view a bear mauling as entertainment. All of them lacked accountability. Lack of equality. Lack of respect. It was impossible to cram hundreds of years of progression into such brutal men. _I need to let it go. She can take care of herself._

Qyburn stepped next to Jaime and adjusted his saddle for him. Qyburn said, “I’ll be bringing milk of the poppy. I hope you reconsider taking it. The travel may be very difficult for you.” 

Immediate weakness swarmed Jaime. It twisted him inside out and upside down. His neck and mind commanded himself to nod his head in a single yes. A surrender. _I can handle it._ Opium remained the only true relationship that transgressed time and he yearned for a familiar face. Jaime’s resistance reached a critical low and a point of no return. Without thinking, his feet took him away from Qyburn to Vargo, who stood halfway up a set of stairs. The disgusting man smirked down at Jaime.

“Ah, Kingthlayer.”

Jaime swallowed. _Why am I doing this?_ This man had taken his hand, not his life. Jaime felt moments away from either euphoric bliss, irreversible death or both. Only after meeting eyes with Vargo did Jaime understand his own plan: he needed help. “She’s coming with me,” Jaime said.

A different man stepped between the two of them and said, “Lord Bolton said the wench was theirs, to do with what they liked.” 

“Her name’s Brienne,” Jaime said.

“The bitch thtayth. Lord Bolton’th orderth,” Vargo hissed in slobber.

_Bolton is gone, you snake._ Defiant, Jaime shook his head and repeated, “I’m taking her to King’s Landing.”

“The bitch belongth to me,” Vargo said with a temper. Men sworn to protect Jaime and Vargo surrounded them with hands rested on pommels, and it reminded Jaime that he had more men than Vargo.

“What do you think matters to Lord Bolton more? Giving his pet goat a reward or ensuring Lord Tywin’s son returns alive?” Jaime asked. Their eyes burned into each other while everyone else around them waited on eggshells, ready to attack.

Vargo’s large nose flared. His brown eyes, ablaze with rage, threatened to burn Jaime. _I don’t care if I have to fight that bear myself, she’s coming with me._ After a pause, Vargo broke his glare and looked to the side. As Jaime looked with him, Vargo’s hand gestured out as if he presented a gift. His gift was Brienne, dressed in her pathetic, ill-matched crimson dress. Her frowning face immediately soured Jaime with a sting of regret. _Gods, why am I doing this?_ Jaime didn’t want her for entertainment, fighting, sapphires or maidenhead. _Apparently, I only rescue maidens. I hope she rescues me, instead._

Jaime stood his ground and waited for Brienne to nudge her way through the crowd to meet him at the base of the stairs. Before leaving, Jaime smirked and leaned over towards Vargo. He said, “Sorry about the sapphires.”

Jaime walked away feeling like a king.

On horses and traveling south, Brienne continued to glower at Jaime as he rode beside her. Their league of two hundred men and one woman avoided the King’s Road. Even on the smoothest horse from Harrenhal, Jaime grumbled in pain. He held reins with one tired hand, and his stump ached with every step. 

He lost himself in the landscape until Brienne asked, “Why are you helping me?”

In an angry whisper, Jaime said, “Because I married you.”

Brienne’s scowl soured, although her cheeks resembled her dress. 

_That’s it. I miss that._ Jaime half smiled and cleared his throat. “Because you need to help me. Don’t ever let me take milk of the poppy. Ever. Do you swear?”

She blinked and deflected away. His heart sank. He understood her reaction. She mistrusted him. She found him disgusting. _Not only am I a Kingslayer, I’m an addict._ If only she knew the sinful things he had done... She’d never speak to him again.

She took her time, deciding to meet his eyes when she was ready. With tight lips, she nodded. “I swear.”

Jaime nodded back, holding back his urge to smile. Instead, he left her alone for the remainder of the day. 

At night, Jaime insisted sharing his camp alone with Brienne. To his surprise, the men allowed him his wish. Instead of irritating the creature from Tarth, he remained silent while they ate soup for supper. She appeared thankful, as much as Jaime could discern. Her facial expressions and the movement of her body gave away all of her emotions. If frustrated, her anger festered regardless of the task— she would have tried to crush her bowl. No, in this moment, she was calm, and set the bowl down with gentle fingers. Jaime also determined when she stared away from him, she had no interest in talking. As soon as her eyes met his, however, he’d pounce— verbally, of course.

When their escort started to go down for the night, her eyes met Jaime’s. _Finally._ Unleashed, he wanted to ramble and babble. Instead, he set an odd goal for himself: get Brienne to laugh. He never thought of her as a friend, but the entertainer in him was an old habit, refusing to die.

But before he could think of anything to say, she stood and said, “I have to go take a piss.” 

Jaime’s mouth fell agape. This woman lacked every feminine trait possible, except her eyes and voice. _And her body._ Jaime closed his mouth and averted his eyes, embarrassed at his inner thoughts. He had always heard stories about people finding inexplicably attractive traits about their nurses, but he failed to experience it first hand. Until now.

“I— mean no offence, I mean—” she said in a softer voice.

“I know what you mean. I’ll be here,” Jaime said. “Be safe.”

When she came back, her entire persona changed. Her heavy, frustrated steps almost stomped through the fire. Her tense arms crossed against her chest. _Now she’s angry._

“Is… everything okay?” Jaime asked, worried men cornered her while she was away.

She sat on the ground, cold as it was, and shifted her awkward seat as if she was uncomfortable. “Yes,” she said, but she _meant_ no.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a bad liar? Do I need to go yell at someone?”

“Do no such thing! …It’s of no concern to you,” she added.

“Why not?” he asked. _How can someone so predictable answer me so unpredictably?_

“Because you’re a _man_. I’ll be fine…” In a quieter voice, she said, “I wish they didn’t take my clothes or armor.”

Oh. Her sudden change in behavior made sense. She started her period, he guessed. He held his tongue and glanced over at sulking Brienne. She was right, it didn’t concern him... but as a man of action, Jaime felt compelled to help. Without announcing his intentions, he left their camp for Qyburn. And within a few minutes, Jaime came back to their campsite with clean rags. Asking Qyburn for them was easier than he originally thought, but giving them to Brienne sounded like a different story altogether. 

“Here,” Jaime said, holding out the extra fabric to her. Brienne glared up at him. Jaime stretched his arm out further. “Take it. And don’t worry, I didn’t tell him you started your period.”

She narrowed her eyes at him and said, “My wh—what?”

“The thing, you know, that thing,” Jaime stumbled, losing confidence. _Gods, did I guess wrong?_ “You know, the blood thing, just use this— if you want. I know they took everything from you. I don’t know what women in your time do. I barely know what women in my time do. Just— _take it_.” _Shut up! Why am I even doing this?!_

With suspicious eyes and cautious fingers, she accepted the fabric from his hand. Jaime cleared his throat and returned to his seat. He sat for a split second and changed his mind in an instant, leaving the campsite to relieve himself for the night. As he walked away, he could still feel Brienne’s eyes burying into him. Sometimes, it felt as if he really was married to Brienne. They bickered like an old couple.

When he returned, Brienne seemed more relaxed, sitting on the log again. Jaime no longer saw fabric.

“I thank you,” Brienne said. Her voice and words sang gratitude, but the shame of his behavior overpowered her harmony of appreciation. 

Jaime sat down across from her. Fire glowed between them and he nodded. Instead of surging with superiority, he felt remorse for the way he reacted. Jaime slumped his shoulders, shook his head and said, “I apologize for how I acted. And I don’t know the name.”

“Moon’s blood,” she answered for him.

To starve off awkward feelings gnawing at him, he wanted to keep talking. Jaime shrugged and said, “It’s natural. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

She looked at him once and then gazed into the fire— silent.

He couldn’t bear silence. “You know, not all women wear dresses in my time. They, usually, wear what they want. You’d fit right in,” Jaime said. It earned him a piercing glare, sharp as a knife. Jaime leaned back, as if he could escape her most powerful weapon. He shook his head. “I’m not mocking you, I mean it,” he said, “There’s so much to explain.”

Brienne stared at the fire and leaned her ear a bit closer. So he explained. Jaime talked about anything and everything on his mind. He explained women’s rights, and in his time, some men lost jobs and positions over harassment. Brienne managed a faint smile. For the most part, she sat and listened. He couldn’t elaborate over a thousand years worth of history, but he liked to think he explained his topics well enough. He continued with subjects he hoped were simpler, and he made sure no one else around them listened in. He explained roads, cars, machines and planes. With joy he told Brienne he could fly in the sky across Westeros like a raven. He used country and continent names he was sure Brienne never knew existed. Brynland. Direland. Crownsland. Casterland. She didn’t understand it all, but she listened. To make sure she listened, he asked, “Do you think the world is flat?” 

“Of course,” she said. Laying on her bedroll, next to their fire, she staved sleep.

“Well, have you ever fallen off of it?” he asked with a smile. 

After a scoff, she pondered by herself.

The rest of the night, he continued comparing the two worlds to her, even after she closed her eyes. It felt therapeutic to let out all of the unresolved tension of the tortuous weeks he endured. He had no idea how much knowledge he kept bottled up inside.

Over the next two weeks, Jaime and the barbaric woman formed a mutual understanding. He left her alone during their rides and when she was ready, he’d talk at night. She always had the choice to listen or tune him out, he didn’t care. 

One night, while he paused to drink warm broth, she asked, “Are you married?”

Jaime glanced over, but she warded off any eye contact. Jaime creased his brow. “Yes, to you.”

She sighed and rolled her eyes. He loved her reactions. She clarified, “No, in your time.”

“No, just some rich bachelor. Why in Seven Hells would I want a wife?”

“You mentioned a woman.”

“I’m sensing jealousy from my wife, am I correct?”

She scoffed and shook her head. “No.”

Jaime felt no need to press her reasoning further, but it perplexed him. She rarely asked questions, and to keep their relationship cordial, Jaime decided to provide the explanation she wanted. “I’ll never marry her, she’s already married. But she’s the only woman I’ve ever been with and plan on being with.” 

Brienne failed to hide her disgust with a look that resembled gagging. 

Jaime straightened his back and said, “Oh, don’t give me that look.” Jaime looked to their fire, lost in the lessening flames. It reminded him of his dying passion with _her_. Jaime let out a sigh. “You can’t choose who you love.”

Her silence begged to agree with him. After a long pause, Brienne said, “You need to be careful.”

“Careful about what?”

“Careful about everything— who knows about this marriage. In the eyes of a septon or the Seven— ”

“Yes, but you know it isn’t real.”

“What my father will think when he hears of it. What your father will think of it.”

“Why?” Jaime failed to understand.

“Dowries, heirs— ” 

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll be gone as soon as I can. You and I can both forget it ever happened.”

As if she didn’t hear him, she stared at the fire and said, “The only marriage I’ll ever have is a fake one with rapists as witnesses.” Her somber voice ripped into his heart. 

Jaime opened his mouth to suggest a solution, such as finding another husband for her, but he knew better than that. People called her Maid of Tarth for a reason. It surprised him to discover she grieved the prospect of never marrying. He would have guessed she had zero interest in it, but it was the other way around. People had no interest in her, and he could see why. Shallow people, including himself, saw her as tall, ugly and large. For fear of making the situation worse, Jaime remained quiet the rest of the night. She sniffled, either from her emotions or the cold. 

_Well I feel deep in your heart there are wounds time can’t heal  
And I feel somebody somewhere is trying to breathe  
Well you know what I mean  
It’s a world gone crazy  
Keeps a woman in chains_


	14. Chapter 14

King’s Landing looked, smelled and sounded nothing like Ashlanding. Instead of modern high skyscraper buildings, the beige, dense architecture and cobbled streets adorned its city. It smelled of dust, rotten food and body odor. So many people walked and pushed their way around them. Constant movement of people and sounds mesmerized Jaime. It reminded him he lived in a world where he didn’t belong. Despite being in the past for ten weeks, it still felt foreign.

New guards led Jaime to what they called the Red Keep, which rested on the coast. He didn’t expect such an elegant and graceful castle. Even in modern times, the Red Keep would be a dream residence— while the rest lived in rags. Identical to his times, most of the world’s wealth concentrated into a few lucky hands. _And I only have one of those now._

A horrible smell wafted by him. The smell of shit. Modern plumbing hadn’t yet arrived in Westeros and Jaime swore to never take it for granted again. Jaime tried his best to ignore it while quiet men guided him to a room with a bath. _Servants?_ Guilt nagged at him as they stripped him of his clothes and helped him into warm water. _Do they know where the Stark girls are?_

Another breeze washed through the room as the door opened. Through the door walked in a small man and Jaime couldn’t believe his eyes. Tyrion.

“Seven Hells, Jaime. Why not take your dwarf brother with you?” Tyrion said.

_Same smartass brother._ Tyrion waddled over, and with one smile, he warmed Jaime more than the bathwater. A large scar across his brother’s face distracted him, but everything else mirrored the Tyrion he knew: height, voice, hair, smile— even age. Despite being ugly, Jaime loved him regardless. Relief sprouted a permanent smile on Jaime. Tyrion stepped towards the bath, grinning until he saw the bandages on Jaime’s wrist.

Jaime’s smile disappeared and he raised his right stump. “I’d come to your party but I haven’t finished mine.”

“The cripple brothers, back together again. I’ve missed you, Jaime.”

_You’ll miss me again, I won’t be here long._ Jaime remained still while someone ran a sharp blade around his jawline, shaving off Jaime’s beard. As it fell off, his bare skin felt hot, humid air from King’s Landing. 

Tyrion and Jaime clicked together as old brothers should, like old puzzle pieces. They shared stories of their scars, and the conversation drifted to their father’s disappointment in them. _He sounds just like father from my time._ After a hefty round of catching up, Tyrion couldn’t help but ask, “How did you survive? And why run away? Robert was going to pardon you, surely you know that. We’ve been searching for your murderer for years and— you were never murdered.”

“I’ll explain in due time,” Jaime said, never intending to reveal the truth. _I don’t belong here._ He needed to return the Stark girls to their mother, not investigate the previous Jaime’s life. Although, as the thought of murder crossed his mind, Jaime clenched his left hand. _Let’s hope whoever murdered him is long dead by now._

After servants dressed him in clean clothes, Jaime felt whole again, albeit missing a hand. They laughed and smiled for an hour, reminding Jaime how much he loved his brother from home. He missed him, despite talking with another version right in front of him. Tyrion possessed twice the cunning when compared to Jaime’s modern brother. In Jaime’s mind, they were almost the same person. The same Tyrion. _I need to spend more time with him when I get back._

Loud creaks from the door distracted them and sobs entered the room. Jaime lifted his eyes to see a beautiful woman adorned with long, golden hair. Redness from crying made her green eyes come to life, scanning over Jaime. Her entire body trembled in shock. Jaime couldn’t believe it: his dead twin sister. Alive. _Cersei._

Without stealing attention, Tyrion withdrew to the window. Curtains drifting in the sea breeze erased Tyrion from the room while Cersei collided with Jaime and pulled him into an embrace. Cersei nestled into him as his arms wrapped around her. People could only dream of such an opportunity to see a dead loved one again… and he was living it. And so was she. Still in awe, he closed his eyes, flashing through childhood memories of playing and fighting with his twin sister— before she passed away. In addition to losing their mother, their horrible family tragedy of losing her affected him... and counselors pinned that tragedy as one of the root causes of his problems. Nothing could replace the bond of twins.

“Sweet brother,” she sang into his chest. She looked at him and cupped his cheeks in her soft hands. With graceful strength, she forced Jaime to look at her. Her eyes surveyed him until tears welled up until the point of blurry blindness. “Why did you leave me? Why? Why? Why?” she asked for answers, and he had none. Jaime averted his eyes to the floor as his grip loosened. 

Someone cleared their throat. Jaime’s eyes looked over Cersei’s golden waves. It was Ser Daven.

Daven stepped in, dressed in shimmering gold armor and white cloak. He cleaned up well, and as the man promised, his beard remained. His wiry hairs couldn’t hide his resentful expression. Daven looked as pissed as Jaime felt. Jaime remembered their last encounter, and if it weren’t for Daven, Jaime could have been home by now. 

“Your Grace,” Ser Daven said. 

“Not now!” Cersei said, refusing to move her eyes from Jaime. “My brother is back. My sweet brother.”

Her love softened something in Jaime. Their indescribable connection left Jaime’s eyes watering. He couldn’t describe how it felt to behold a dead loved one. “I’ve missed you, Cersei, so much,” Jaime said. 

Cersei shook her head as tears fell and her lips quivered. Their moment tensed in ways Jaime couldn’t explain. Her fingers lingered on his face and her focus turned to his lips, as if she meant to kiss him. Cersei pulled away and Jaime knew he made a mistake in his assumption.

“King Joffrey has called a supper to welcome Ser Jaime,” Daven said. 

Cersei ignored him. Having stepped out from behind curtains, Tyrion walked across the room and gestured Jaime to follow. Cersei stormed ahead of everyone and led the way. Jaime followed his brother while Daven stayed at the door. Jaime’s muscles screamed to attack the man as he stepped closer. Daven’s eyes fixed on Jaime, as if he could read his thoughts. Jaime forced a thin smile, trying his best to disguise his hatred.

As Jaime walked out, however, Daven pivoted and turned to follow. Within a few short strides, the two tall men walked side by side. Jaime’s blood pressure swelled. “Still have that beard?” Jaime asked. “I remember you running away rather quickly, maybe you missed your target.”

Daven stared ahead, smiled and said, “The little puppy got to him first, but I hit my target well enough.”

Jaime dropped his smile, and narrowed his brow to threaten the cocky son of a bitch. _Hit me again, see what happens._ It didn’t matter if Jaime only had one hand.

“A Lannister always pays his debts,” Tyrion said as he waddled ahead of them. 

Jaime didn’t know his little brother had been listening. With a smirk, Jaime turned to Daven and reached out his left hand to pat the man’s armored shoulder. “Good thing I’m more Lannister than you. I have a lot of debts to pay.”

Underneath Daven’s mess of facial hair, his lips bent into a firm frown. 

Jaime smiled wider while servants opened the door for all four of them to enter the dining hall. Smells of roasted meats and vegetables filled Jaime’s lungs. Not a spot of dirt surrounded him, and it made him uneasy. Too perfect. Still stunned and starving from his weeks of torture, Jaime chewed at his cheek while Cersei beckoned him to sit next to her. His angel. Jaime followed her command and sat next to her. Adjacent to his sister sat Ser Daven. Another younger boy sat next to Tyrion, whose eyes never stopped moving during supper. Seated at the head of the table was a yawning, young teenager. His short blond hair and mean appearance matched his crooked crown and regal outfit. 

After someone stepped in to formally announce the King’s titles to Jaime, King Joffrey said, “Tell me about your travels, Uncle.” His voice sounded like an out of tune guitar.

_Someone wants me to talk?_ All eyes awaited his answer and Jaime cleared his throat. It didn’t take long for his elaborate stories to entertain the boys and Tyrion, but his sister and cousin appeared less interested. The little boy perked up most when Jaime discussed exotic animals, but Joffrey only simpered at the mention of wars or conflict. Tyrion, eyes glued to his brother, became fascinated by all of it. Jaime paused to eat his meal, but someone’s curiosity always pulled him out with a question. Genuine intrigue didn’t bother Jaime, and with each quick bite of food, his stomach didn’t mind either. Delicious meats and pastries filled his belly. He reached to a gobblet to wash it down and discovered wine.

“My brother needs more wine,” Cersei said to a servant.

Jaime held out his bandaged stump to say no, and Cersei’s eyes widened. Jaime managed a half smile and said, “No wine, please. Water would be wonderful.”

The servant, holding a large container of wine, nodded and left. Cersei’s eyes begged Jaime for explanation.

“I hear you lost a hand, Uncle,” Joffrey said.

Jaime withdrew his hand under the table in slight shame. He avoided those parts in his stories. Unable to ignore their demand for answers, Jaime explained and blamed Vargo Hoat for removing his hand. Losing his hand killed him, but Jaime tried his best to appear like it didn’t affect him. When people’s eyes started to look away, Jaime wanted to say anything to distract them from his pain. “If you don’t mind me asking, where is Sansa and Ayra Stark?”

Tyrion tightened his brow while Joffrey snickered. A dissonant chord settled in around them, more than before. Cersei stared at Tyrion, and said in her beautiful voice, “Sansa is to marry Tyrion. Arya has been missing since Ned Stark’s death, probably dead or in a whore house somewhere.”

With so much to unpack from that statement, Jaime frowned and glanced over at Tyrion. His brother winced and nodded. Jaime’s heart raced. _No. Arya has been missing for how long and no one told her mother?_ Jaime changed his face to neutral as more eyes judged his reaction. Bad blood between the Starks and Lannisters grew deeper than he thought. Maybe, just maybe, Lady Catelyn changed her mind and allowed the marriage. After all, it had been over two months since they spoke last.

Jaime said, “Did Lady Catelyn appr—”

“Robb Stark is dead along with his bitch mother at the Frey’s wedding feast,” Joffrey said with pride. “Lord Bolton personally stabbed the pathetic treasonous cunt. I’ve commanded Lord Frey to send Robb Stark’s head. I’m going to serve it to Sansa at her wedding feast.” An excited Joffrey stood, jerked out a sword from his hip and brandished the blade in front of him. “The best swords have names and I’m naming mine Widow’s Wail!” Joffrey wiggled in amusement.

Jaime dropped his knife and it crashed onto the plate. Cersei ignored Jaime and smiled at her son. Tyrion scowled until the King’s eyes fell on him. Everyone acted as if… this was normal. Catelyn was dead... 

_I’m a new day rising  
I’m a brand new sky  
To hang the stars upon tonight  
I am a little divided  
Do I stay or run away  
And leave it all behind?_

A servant edged their way into the conversation, despite standing far away from the table. “Ser Jaime, the Hand wishes to see you.”

“Go,” Cersei whispered with a smile, “Father wants to know it’s really you.”

_Shit._

Jaime followed a servant up a whirlwind of stairs and open door. Inside, sat a man next to a fire. Jaime stepped into the lion’s den and the man peered over— studying Jaime for a moment. Resemblance between the two Tywins paralyzed Jaime. _You look just like him._

“Jaime,” his father said in his unmistakable deep voice, as if Jaime had never been missing. 

Jaime stepped forward. He felt like a teenager about to be scolded.

“I expected you earlier.” Tywin’s disappointment carried through the room.

Jaime swallowed. “I was busy... How long have you known?” _Why didn’t you rescue me?_

“The eunuch told me a few days after your escape from the Starks. As you know, I am not a fan of rumors and only believed it when Ser Daven confirmed you were alive. Sending an army of men to find you would only raise suspicion. To this day, I don’t understand why you left years ago or why it took you this long to come back. Or why you came back now, of all times. You missed the Battle of the Blackwater and I settled with Tyrion in your stead.” 

Jaime remained speechless. He was a child again. 

Tywin stood, and behind him hung a similar banner to the one he saw at Harrenhal: red with a golden lion. The Lannister sigil. Jaime’s modern father would have loved to know their family history. After all, a Lannister descendant was Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. His father’s eyes peered over Jaime’s stump. “You seem to have lost a hand in the process. What’s done is done. I have a gift for you.”

_I know it is no gift._ Jaime refused to step forward until Tywin’s eyes commanded him to do so. His father continued to be one of the few people able to scare him, and both Tywins took advantage of that privilege. Tywin pulled out a sword and tilted the handle towards Jaime. Awkwardly, Jaime reached for the handle and held the spotless blade and glimmering gold. It appeared fake, except the durable weight dragged on his single hand. Tywin stared until the silence made Jaime uncomfortable.

“Thank you, it’s glorious,” Jaime said.

“You’ll have to learn how to use your left hand.”

“I can learn.”

“You’ll never be as good.” 

Jaime let out a tense breath. Both Tywins were the same man. _You’ve always had such confidence in me._ “No,” Jaime said, “but as long as I’m better than everyone else, it doesn’t matter.” _I really can learn, if I wanted to. I don’t. But I could._

“You can’t serve on the Kingsguard with one hand.” 

Offended by his father’s doubt, regardless of the truth, Jaime asked, “Who says that?”

“You gave up that vow when you deserted our family.”

Jaime turned away from his father while his eyes fell to the floor.

Tywin continued, “We have knights that protect King Joffrey and they will continue to do so when you go home.”

The last word echoed in Jaime’s mind. “Home?”

“You will return to Casterly Rock and rule in my stead. I am Hand of the King, my place is here. I don’t expect to see the Rock again before I die.”

_Home. I have a better idea. Screw everyone. Sansa, Arya, Brienne, everyone. I can go home._ Jaime laid the sword on the table. “If I leave the Kingsguard,” Jaime clarified, “I’ll have my own men, my own guards and I can go home?”

“Correct,” Tywin said without smiling. “It’s time I have my son back.”

_Fuck Casterly Rock, I’m taking them to the Isle of Faces. Home._ “Done. When can I leave?” 

Again, Tywin remained a stone.

“I’ll get the High Septon and King’s approval first.”

Jaime nodded and reached for the sword. With only a few days left in this savage land, Jaime figured he would make the most of it. He sheathed his sword. _This doesn’t belong to me._ Jaime looked at his father, who watched him. _But it doesn’t belong to you, either._ Jaime cradled his sword in his good arm and pivoted towards the door.

Behind him, his father said, “Don’t abandon your family again.”

Jaime refused to look back. His sword empowered him, allowing Jaime’s lips to curve into a victorious smile. _Home. I’ll be home._ Jaime said, “I know where I belong. I belong with my family.”


	15. Chapter 15

Several days later, Brienne found Jaime on a balcony overlooking the gardens and sea. They stood with a respectable distance between each other, much further than their days spent tied together on a horse. The woman’s hair, no longer soaked in dirt, gleamed blonde again. She combed it back— a rather questionable look. In a long skirt and leather top, she wore an awkward outfit managing to fit her better than her crimson dress or rags. Jaime preferred seeing her in armor, something she no longer possessed. Jaime sighed, wondering why Brienne decided to corner him in public. They hadn’t seen each other often since their arrival to King’s Landing, with the exception of Jaime taking a man named Loras Tyrell to see her. The man insisted her guilt for murdering Renly, but Jaime facilitated a mutual understanding between the two stubborn warriors.

“There she is,” Brienne said, nodding towards the shoreline.

_No thank you for Loras?_ Jaime followed her gaze. From a distance, he saw a young girl with great posture and long auburn hair— similar to her mother. _A shame._ Jaime forced a small smile and glanced at Brienne. Her poor ability to converse irritated him to no end. Jaime said, “Yes, there she is. And?” 

Brienne confronted him with broad shoulders, scowling down at him. “You made a promise,” she said, sounding as if he insulted her. 

_If you want insults, Brian, I’ll give them._ Jaime tapped his only hand on the stone railing before he said, “To return the Stark girls to her mother, who is now dead.” His eyes glanced over to see Brienne, who resembled a harsh teacher who just heard an incorrect answer. She already knew.

“To keep them safe,” she corrected.

Jaime lifted his shoulder in a mild shrug— and to let off any remaining pent up energy. “Well, Arya Stark hasn’t been seen since her father was killed. Where do you think she is? My money is on dead. There’s a certain safety in death, wouldn’t you say? And Sansa Stark is about to become Sansa _Lannister_. A bit of a complication, really.”

“Complication does not release you from a vow.” 

_Naive, stubborn woman. Why do I even bother?_ “What do you want me to do? Kidnap Sansa— and take her where? Where would she be safer than here?”

“Look me in the eye and tell me that you think she will be safe in King’s Landing.” Brienne leaned closer with intense eyes.

Jaime avoided her gaze and scoffed. “Gods, you’re certainly nagging me like a wife would.” He burst at the seams at the opportunity to insult her. He didn’t want to. The best solution to avoid a problem is to, well, avoid it. Simple in theory, yet hard to execute. Jaime turned and walked away, but the damn woman followed him. _Stubborn as ever._ Jaime tried walking faster. “Just give me time,” he said.

Her long legs caught up within a few strides. “Time for more horrible things to happen? When she’s married you think it will be easier to take her?”

“No— time for me to think of something. I need a distraction. And men. When I have both, I can help. Until then, my hands,” he paused, “sorry— hand is tied.”

The army of two didn’t exactly end of the best of terms, but it didn’t matter. He would never get along with the Maid of Tarth. He preferred company with his siblings, who adored him. Jaime forgot all of his troubles when Cersei invited him for a prosthetic hand. She didn’t call it a prosthetic: a golden hand. It had a nice ring to it. 

Jaime entered his chambers to find Qyburn sitting at a desk. He conducted the usual physical exam. Weeks of time led to a steady recovery for Jaime. His stump’s skin healed over into a dark scar. He could press into numb skin until he felt jagged ends of another bone and uncontrollable phantom pain of his missing hand. The agony came and went in waves. Some days were better than others.

Qyburn positioned Jaime’s new, extravagant golden hand on his right stump. The weight bothered Jaime, as his forearm muscles already started to atrophy. 

“How does it feel?” Qyburn asked.

Jaime rotated it around. An open space between the thumb and fingers. One look and Jaime judged the bloody thing useless. Deciding to be honest but less harsh, Jaime said, “A hook would be more practical.”

“Elegant, I think,” Cersei said.

_Don’t think she liked my answer._ Jaime frowned and peered for a better look. She was right. Their house sigil rested front and center on his hand. _It’s better than a stump._ Jaime continued to marvel at his new metal hand while Cersei and Qyburn hushed whispers to each other at the door. Jaime only caught the last of it with Cersei saying, “I’m in your debt, Maester Qyburn.”

“Not a maester, Your Grace, but happy to help.”

When the door closed, Cersei grabbed a metal goblet and poured wine into it. A smile ran over her lips.

“You drink a lot,” Jaime said, thinking aloud. It wasn’t even the middle of the day yet, and she already consumed alcohol. She drank countless glasses of wine at every supper and meeting. He always assumed she drank due to the stress of family, but this time, they were alone— for the first time. _Why are you drinking?_ A nightmare for an addict was to have another addict sibling.

“Yes,” she said, as if the only issue was Jaime’s observation.

“Why?”

“Let’s see.” Cersei strolled over and sat at the edge of the desk. Jaime continued to sit in his chair, gazing up at her. Despite her drinking, it felt comfortable to spend time with a sister he never knew, and he considered himself lucky for their close relationship. Cersei crossed her legs, pulling up the bottom of the dress to expose her calf and lower thigh. In modern times, no one would bat an eye. But in ancient Westeros, men would consider it flaunting— A weapon of temptation. Cersei swayed her body as she said, “You left without telling me. I lived here, without you, for years and years with a fat, drunk man. My husband died in a tragic accident.”

_Accident._ Jaime hated that word. 

Cersei continued, “My only daughter was shipped off to Dorne. I suffered through a siege. Now I’m marrying my eldest son to a wicked little bitch from Highgarden.”

Her words wounded him as if he deserved it. Jaime gazed at his own lap as a wave of shame came over him. His sister resented him. And it hurt. The sister he wished never died. The sister he wanted to grow up with, but never had the chance. She harbored resentment over the original Jaime and she affected him just the same. If only she knew her real brother really did die many years ago. Jaime opened his mouth, brave enough to tell her the truth.

“Joffrey should have been your son,” she said, interrupting him. 

Confusion spread over Jaime. _Did I just mishear her?_ “Wh—what?”

“You think I’d let that whoring man put a child in me? I settled without you and look at what’s happening.”

Her implication paralyzed him and she picked up on his concern. Her hand reached out and cupped his face, forcing him to stare at her. Her thumb caressed his cheek while she beamed a sweet grin. “Let’s not argue now, sweet brother. We need to make up for lost time.”

Cersei leaned over and _kissed_ him. Denial coursed through him as he thought— hoped— prayed for a misunderstanding or… culture difference. Jaime’s refusal became infinitely harder when her tongue forced his lips open and she deepened the kiss. Before he could jerk away, her free hand gripped his cock through his trousers. Sudden sexual attention excited him. _She’s not really your sister._ She was beautiful, graceful and fierce— everything Jaime thought he wanted in a woman. Without _her_ at home— “Sweet brother,” Cersei whispered into his ear, and that was all he needed to hear.

Jaime scrambled out from under his sister, who transformed into a venomous snake at his rejection.

Cersei creased her brow and mouth, wrinkling her face into an obscene volume of hatred. “Not now? You’ve been back for an entire week! You still have yet to visit my bedchambers!” 

Stunned, Jaime said, “I— I— ”

Cersei’s beautiful face became uglier than Brienne’s, and his sister twirled around and knocked wine onto the floor. Red wine seeped into the rugs. “Something’s changed,” she accused.

Jaime closed his eyes. His sister was the first person to notice... He wasn’t willing to engage in incest, let alone with his _twin_. A knock on the door startled him. Cersei demanded no entry while Jaime ordered the person to come in. _Gods, please come in and save me._

To his relief, a young man opened the door and gazed at both of them. “Your Grace. Ser Jaime. The Hand has called a meeting.” 

Nearly half an hour passed before Jaime and Cersei exited on neutral terms. They bickered like true siblings— about a subject siblings should never have. Only the promise to see her later appeased her. It was a vow Jaime fully intended to break.

When they arrived at their father’s room, Tywin glowered and judged them. “You’re late,” he said. 

“No, I’m busy waiting on you,” Jaime said, growing distressed from his disgusting sister and oppressive father. “Am I out of the Kingsguard yet, or not?” Jaime asked. 

“Your jokes are not appreciated,” Tywin said.

“You’re leaving the Kingsguard?” Cersei asked as she sat across the table. She frowned, as if he needed to ask her permission for such a request.

Jaime shrugged his shoulders in his seat and tried his best to ignore her. _My family is a complete pain in the ass._

“He is now Lord of Casterly Rock,” Tywin said without amusement. 

Ignoring his father’s lack of appreciation, Jaime asked, “Thank you, father. I will have my men?” He thought of nothing but ordering his army to take him to the Isle of Faces. No relationship could keep him stuck in the past, not even Tyrion or his dead, sick and twisted sister. _Sorry, Sansa, find your own way home._

Tywin nodded. He tapped his fingers on the desk and revealed a small smirk. “Yes, and a wife.”

_A wife?_ Jaime and Cersei frowned.

Tywin said, “Tyrion has yet to marry Sansa Stark and you will wed her instead. We need the key to the North.” 

Both of the siblings grappled with the news and spoke over each other in protest.

“No, you can’t do it.”

“You can’t mean it.”

“I can and I _do_ ,” their father said, raising his voice. “The girl’s happiness is not my concern, nor should it be yours.”

“She’s a child,” Jaime said with obvious disgust. _And I thought Brienne was young._

“She’s only just flowered,” Cersei said with urgent, pleading eyes.

“There, see?” Tywin found the match suitable. “You will wed her, bed her and put a child in her.”

“And if I refuse?” Jaime asked, meaning it to be more of a threat than it sounded.

Tywin remained unphased. “You’re not in the Kingsguard, now you’re Lord of Casterly Rock.”

“Father, don’t make him do it,” Cersei said, pleading for selfish, stupid reasons. 

Jaime’s father outsmarted him. And Jaime was a fool to think a historic Tywin wouldn’t force a marriage on his family’s pride and joy. Tyrion had always been an embarrassment and marrying Sansa gave Tywin the North. But with Jaime, Tywin hoped to have the North, heirs and an obedient son at Casterly Rock. The realization sickened Jaime, and he needed to act fast to stop it.

_I can’t fall back  
I came too far  
Hold myself up  
And love my scars_

“I’m already married,” Jaime admitted, and it stunned the room. 

Cersei’s mouth fell open and Tywin cocked his head to the side. The man was never surprised. “To whom?” Tywin demanded.

“Brienne of Tarth,” Jaime said in pain, as if saying her name hurt.

Cersei’s eyes wandered around in a panic while their father narrowed his brow at Jaime. “And you’ve consummated it?” Tywin asked.

Jaime sighed. “Well, no, not yet.”

“Then it never happened.”

“Father—” Jaime said, ready to plea as Cersei did.

“You will do as I command!” he said, voice booming across the table and echoing through the large room. “You’ve disgraced the Lannister name for far too long.”

_Marrying a child is disgraceful enough._

Jaime held his tongue, while Tywin provided details of the wedding. It would happen before traveling to Casterly Rock. Jaime's desperate eyes searched for anything to get him out of this situation. Regardless of the era, time swallowed precious time.


	16. Chapter 16

Jaime arrived in a panic, knocking on Brienne’s door. He suspected he might not walk out of her room alive. She would murder him based on principle alone. Jaime curled his toes— waiting, waiting, waiting for Brienne to open her door. His mind brooded over his father’s deception. His father tricked him. Jaime hoped it wasn’t too late to outsmart him. 

Brienne opened the door— shocked and concerned to see Jaime.

“I grew my hand back,” Jaime said while waving his heavy metal.

The unsightly woman responded by retreating away from his invasion. Taking advantage of the free space, Jaime entered on his own volition. He stepped into an agitating room, full of reflecting orange hues from the setting sun and crackling flames. Behind him, Brienne studied him as his nerves raised to the surface. Jaime ignored her until she closed the door, giving them privacy. Jaime turned, and Brienne waited for him to speak. He didn’t want to admit the truth, but her honorable character commanded it. After a reluctant pause, Jaime said, “My father is having Sansa marry me, not Tyrion.”

“What?!” Brienne spread her shoulders back and focused her hostile energy on him.

Jaime shook his head, unable to believe his situation. He said, “She’s a— child— I can’t marry a child.”

Brienne stood still, managed a sorrowful frown and blinked. “This isn’t your time, young women marry often—”

“No, _you’re_ a woman.” Jaime’s boiling anger left him in a fog, unable to interpret her widening stare. In that moment, everything about Brienne made him uncomfortable: her intent focus, her annoying silence and distracting eyes. Frustrated, he confessed, “I brought up this marriage.” 

“You did no such thing,” she said as her cheeks turned pink. Brienne’s eyes fell to the floor.

“I did,” he said, half regretting his actions. He wished he could think before acting. 

Across her room, Brienne paced like a distressed, caged animal. Her eyes remained glued to the floor while her arms crossed at her flat chest. With each passing second, Jaime grew more and more anxious of her response. His own breathing quickened as he waited for an onslaught. _She will kill me._ Her feet halted. Jaime’s eyes traveled up the length of her to find the tall woman calculating her logical options— deep in thought. Her shameful pink cheeks faded away, and Jaime, to his surprise, missed the innocent color.

“It doesn’t matter, this marriage isn’t valid,” Brienne said, speaking as if she could dismiss all responsibility in the situation.

Jaime shook his head. “Why do you think I’m here?” 

Brienne burst into red, not pink. “You told me this marriage wasn’t real to you,” Brienne said as she started to tremble.

“Yes,” Jaime said, “I _did_.” _Can I take it back?_

“You would rather wed me than Sansa Stark?” She asked, sounding baffled.

Confused by her question, Jaime scowled and said, “Only you know where I really belong.” His expression softened, ready to plea with her. “Just swear to me you will say we consummated it, that’s all.” 

“You want me to lie?” Disgust laced her words.

“Well, yes—” 

“I will not lie before the Gods. I am no oath breaker,” Brienne said, chin held high. 

_Neither am I._ Jaime’s veins throbbed in his neck, turning him into a roaring Lannister. In an instant, she was his enemy, as much as his father. “Gods, you are really unlike anyone I’ve ever met before. Disgustingly honorable to an absolute fault. You’d rather force a child into marriage rather than lie.”

“I am a force for her, not on her,” Brienne said, clenching her teeth. “And as her protector, I will force you right into the dirt, should you deserve it. If you lie to the King or the Hand, you deserve it.”

He should have known such a historic, honorable woman would consider their marriage more than the fake rescue it was meant to be. Jaime expended patience with this woman and wanted to mock her— hurt her— anything to get his mind off his current situation. Jaime raised a hand to his forehead, pressing into his temple with stressed force. He said, “As my wife, _you_ deserve a lesson on cooperation.” 

Brienne intensified her glare… and something changed. She looked to the floor with slouched shoulders— thinking, always thinking. _Speak you damn fool. Give me something. Help me._ After a pause, Brienne straightened her posture and nodded. Without emotion, she said, “If you want to validate this marriage, I have a marital duty to oblige that request.”

Jaime gawked the same way obsessive fans gaped at him in public. _Is she saying what I think she’s saying?_ The room quieted, but Jaime could hear his own heart hammering inside his head. Unlike her, his face turned a shade of white. His past decisions continued to haunt him. Jaime said nothing.

“Do you want to validate the marriage?” she asked, possessing more confidence than him.

_Do you?_ Heat abandoned Jaime’s skin, turning him into a clammy, nervous mess. It took him immense willpower not to fidget. He adapted well, but not like this. Under his breath, Jaime said, “Let’s add a lesson on seduction while we’re at it.” _Maybe she’s joking._

Brienne continued to stare. She waited for his honest answer, an answer he hated. 

_She’s not joking._ Jaime’s lungs forgot to breathe. He hated himself. When faced with the image of marrying a girl, Jaime hated himself more. He closed his eyes, too fearful to ask for Brienne’s true opinion. _Do you want to validate this marriage?_ Jaime’s lips wavered. “Yes,” he whispered.

He opened his eyes and Brienne stepped behind a room partition. Desperate for distraction, he fixed on a window across the room. The once white curtain bled red and it swayed in the day’s last dying breath. Jaime’s phantom hand tingled. He contemplated saying no, changing his mind or arguing further. His mind raced with options— tormented by his past. Time ran out. He needed to act, and quickly, or the opportunity would be forever wasted. His lack of planning led him to getting caught, losing his hand and marrying. _Either finish the marriage you’ve already started or marry a little girl. The choice is obvious._

“Be quick about it,” Brienne said as she appeared, still dressed. Averting her eyes, she sat down on the bed. 

With caution, he joined her. He wanted to ask her many questions… _What do you want? Are you even turned on? Do you want this in the first place?_ Whenever his eyes glimpsed over at her, she stared away with a straight face. _What does that mean?_ Once easy to read, this woman now was illegible.

They both leaned back while lying together, air and energy compressing together. Jaime pulled the top bed cover with him. Every nerve on his skin shivered, despite not touching her yet. _You can’t do this without touching her._ Jaime glanced to Brienne again. Desperation squeezed its way between them, and Jaime wanted to do _anything_ to get himself out of marrying a child. Jaime found it hard to breathe. _She told you to be quick. Be quick._ He turned onto his side towards her with his only good hand stuck underneath him. His useless metal hand would only get in the way. _Fucking Seven Hells._

“Can I— move—” he asked as he lifted his right arm. She noticed and nodded with a look of pity more than anything else. _Wonderful. She pities a cripple._

Rolling over Brienne was even more inelegant than asking to do so. He swore he felt every individual thick muscle of hers tense underneath him. When he landed on his clumsy right side, Brienne let out a breath she held. Jaime breathed her in, and her smell reminded him of their times tied together on horses. _Be quick._ Jaime left himself and went away inside.

Jaime reached down and tried to undo the laces of his trousers with one foolish, foreign left hand. Sounds of his hand stumbling underneath the covers sounded like a horny teenager masturbating. Brienne picked up on his need for support and stretched down with calm hands. Through the fabric of his trousers, he felt her fingers pull and tug. Jaime closed his eyes, unable to ignore the pleasant attention and welcome help.

When his laces loosened, Brienne’s hands retreated, as if his cock would bite her. _Not a good sign._ He wasn’t even hard yet. _Be quick._ Jaime stared forward while Brienne closed her eyes. Even if awkward, Jaime needed some sense of connection, so he leaned his forehead against her shoulder. Her chest surged up with a breath at the contact. She felt warm— and didn’t flinch. _Be quick._ His only good hand traveled under the covers and over her long skirt. Her thighs remained closed. _Fine. You’re not ready yet. I’m not ready yet. Fine._

He resigned to bring his hand up, brushing over thick fabric of her tunic. The tips of his gentle fingers trailed over her, the slope of her chest curved like the moon— he visualized her naked and dripping wet from the Harrenhal baths. His loosened trousers grew tight as his cock swelled and his mouth watered. _Be quick._ Brienne’s eyes remained closed and lips parted open. His hand traced to her warm neck, over her smooth chin, across her velvet lips and stopped at her freckled cheek. She turned her closer and her breath washed over him. He felt safe, of all emotions. Jaime stretched up to greet her— she turned away from him. Jaime swallowed. His hand rested below her collar bone, rising faster with her quickening breath. He needed to try _something._ His eyes settled between her neck and her ear. _Be quick._ One of Jaime’s favorite places to kiss, tease and taste, Jaime’s lips found the soft and warm spot behind her ear.

_Won’t look back on my mind  
Won’t let bad out my shine_

Her skin left a salty coating on his lips. He breathed out against her as his cock ached for attention. He enjoyed this. He failed to understand when it became arousing for him. The answer didn’t matter. _Take your time._ He never dreamed of finding her arousing and he must have been confused. She was another woman, someone other than _her_ , someone he could explore— someone who saved his life. To remind himself, against her ear, he whispered, “Brienne.”

She arched, squirmed and reached up to with a tight, strong grip on his arm. An odd sound erupted from her throat and her sudden movement and emotion scared him. Jaime jolted back and saw blue eyes surrounded by blushed skin. Reality flooded into him. _What am I doing? Force myself onto someone so I don’t have to force myself on someone else?_ Brienne, clearly, wasn’t enjoying it. 

He stumbled backwards in the bed and she mirrored him. They eyed each other until Jaime glanced away in shame.

“Ser Jaime...” she whispered.

“No, I’m sorry. I’ve only been with— it doesn’t matter, I know hesitation when I see it,” he said.

Brienne rested on her bent elbows to prop herself up. She stared ahead and said nothing.

_I am not myself._ The entire day plagued him, no, the entire adventure maimed his body and mind. Still, Cersei’s attempted advances and Tywin’s forced marriages were no excuses. Across her bed, Brienne remained pensive, thoughtful and quiet. On several occasions, Brienne opened her mouth to speak, but each time, she changed her mind and remained silent. Although Jaime felt compelled to comfort her, he, too, changed his mind and decided to leave as the moonlight filtered into the darkening room.

For the first time in his life, he thought someone deserved better than him.


	17. Chapter 17

The next day, Jaime arrived late and groggy to the morning’s meal. The shame of the previous night followed him. He couldn’t go through with it, and neither could Brienne. Jaime didn’t blame her, as she was correct in saying she had no influence over the matter. He didn’t want her, Sansa or anything else but to go home— yet he had no power to do so. His family suffocated him. It relieved Jaime to see no family members sitting at the table. However, a slender man sat alone at the table while Jaime sought out the cleanest water he could find. 

The man smiled and lifted his goblet as a toast. “I offer my congratulations for your return,” the man paused, “and your new bride.” 

Jaime failed to hide his wince. Sansa was barely a teenager. Goblet in hand, Jaime sat down, placing several seats between them. _Word gets around as fast as my time._ His eyes glanced towards the man, sensing pressure to respond. “Thank you,” Jaime said.

The man released a small smile and set down his goblet. His eyes, which averted away, appeared soft, happy and nonthreatening. “I can hardly imagine the chaos you’ve seen in the world,” the man said. He used a fork to pick up his last bite from his plate: a wedge of blood orange, staining the metal.

Jaime offered a plain smile, because the man was right. “More than you can imagine and more than you can see.”

The man curved his lips into a smirk while he tilted his head to the side, all the while, maintaining eye contact with Jaime across the table. Jaime’s eyes fell to his metal hand, which rested on the wooden surface. Jaime worried that the man focused on his new golden hand, an obvious sign of his tortuous adventure. People refused to take their eyes off of it. In shame, Jaime tried to hide his hand and glanced over to see the man hadn’t been looking at him at all. In fact, his shoulders turned away as he leaned back in his chair and focused at whatever liquid filled his goblet.

After he finished chewing, the man said, “I’m sure everyone asks you how you ran away, but a cunning man as yourself doesn’t reveal his secrets. No, they’re not wise. It’s not the right question.”

Intrigued, Jaime asked, “What is the right question, Lord—” 

“Lord Baelish, but call me Petyr.”

Jaime nodded and smiled, only for a second. A servant placed a plate full of fresh apples, dried peaches and bread in front of him, but Jaime chose to ignore it.

“The right question is who,” Petyr said. “Who dared to try and murder one of the greatest knights. And why?”

“Not all good questions have answers,” Jaime said. No longer interested, Jaime turned to his plate. He wanted to go home more than answer that question.

“Smart man. Hopefully, it’s a single attempt with no emerging patterns.” 

_That doesn’t matter. I’m so close to leaving._ Still sitting, Petyr watched Jaime eat a dried and pitted peach. Curious, Jaime asked, “And what do you do here, in King’s Landing?”

“I watch. I listen. I serve,” Petyr said with a natural smirk that never seemed to die. After a shrug, he said, “I am a lord of a lesser house, barely of any consequence. I envy you, though, for escaping this place for so many years.”

“This place?” If any man felt jealous of his situation, Jaime wanted to know more.

“The families, politics, vows,” Petyr said. “Ever since you’ve returned, they’ve captured you, pushed you and pulled you in all directions.” 

Jaime froze at the man’s accuracy. Not a single person understood what he was going through, and to hear this man’s empathy sounded like music to his ears. Jaime clenched his left hand together.

Petyr continued, “You would think they would give you time to acclimate, especially with so many new people at court.”

Jaime softened his expression and said, “Well, that’s half the problem. I don’t know everyone.”

The man smiled, as if he already knew. “Lucky for you that I do,” Petyr said. “Think of me as your eyes and ears in your absence. Since the day you left, I’ve been watching, listening and serving. Knowledge is protection.”

His offer was tempting, but Jaime didn’t care for politics. He only wanted to go home.

“Thank you,” Jaime said, “but I have a need for physical protection over knowledge.” Jaime felt comfortable enough to wave his golden hand as emphasis.

“Yes. A new suit of armor, perhaps?”

Jaime bent his head to the side with a half smile. _You must be joking._

Petyr seemed to read his mind and said, “Consider it done, My Lord. As a wedding gift, of course. I will have measurements taken promptly,” Petyr assured. “And whenever you want help with the other half of the problem, ask for me.”

Instead of thanking the man, Jaime grinned again and nodded. As if on cue, Petyr rose, bowed and turned to walk away. Before he left the room, Jaime called out after him and said, “Actually, Petyr, make that two sets of armor.” 

From that point on, Jaime tried to survive the passing week. Chaos stormed around him. Joffrey kept Cersei busy, which allowed Jaime more time to avoid her advances. Her sultry eyes did most of her work during their meals. She disgusted Jaime. By observing Daven’s jealousy, Jaime surmised Daven and Cersei had been having an incestual affair since… the previous Jaime died. Rumors of the Baratheon children being bastards were not unfounded. Joffrey was a little shit. _If he were any more inbred, he’d be sandwich._

Tyrion and Joffrey did not get along well, and Jaime could easily see why. It upset Joffrey and Cersei to accept Tyrion escaping a damned marriage with Sansa, and Jaime realized Joffrey and Cersei looked forward to Tyrion’s humiliation. It didn’t stop the evil King Joffrey from tormenting his poor little brother on a daily basis. Jaime held his tongue because he wanted to keep it.

Jaime wished time could slow down. He hoped changing Sansa’s groom would stall the wedding, but Tywin wouldn’t allow it. On the day of his dreaded wedding, they offered Jaime a chance to meet Sansa before the ceremony. Jaime refused.

Important marriages happened in the Great Sept of Baelor. Jaime stood as a hostage of family and time, with lush Lannister cloak in hand, waiting for Sansa to arrive. Everyone dressed in their finest clothes. Two crowds of joyful people chatted and whispered among themselves. Similar to modern weddings, everyone had fun except the groom or bride. Almost everyone. Jaime caught eyes with Cersei, standing heartbroken a few steps below him. A permanent scowl stained her face. For a moment, her painful beauty affected him, so he averted his eyes.

The crowd’s tallest woman stole his attention: Brienne. She turned pink as their eyes met and looked away. Jaime erupted in the faintest smile at his effect on her, and out of the corner of his eye, Cersei turned to discover the source of his grin. Cersei’s hands twisted and tightened until her hands turned ghost white. _She noticed._

The great door opened, echoing throughout the house of worship. Among the shadows, Sansa entered alone, until Joffrey intercepted her. After an awkward hesitation, they walked down the steps together and across the floor.

Sansa’s age became more evident as she came closer. _She’s young enough to be my daughter!_ Jaime averted all eye contact and turned to face the High Septon. He couldn’t believe this was actually happening… again. Jaime retreated away inside himself. Sansa, much shorter than him, settled in her place beside him. She offered no smile, no glance and no acknowledgement. _She’s as forced as I am._

“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection,” the High Septon said, and it brought a grimace to Jaime’s face.

On cue, Sansa turned her body and lowered her head. Jaime clenched his jaw and tried his best to place the thick, velvet cloak along her shoulders. With only one hand, it fell to the floor. A few people in the crowd laughed, along with Joffrey. Jaime reached down and picked up the fallen cloak with his left hand. As he brought it up to her shoulders again, he leaned closer to ask Sansa, “Can you— help?”

A startled and timid Sansa reached back to pull the cloak onto her right shoulder while he adorned her left— an embarrassing feat to say the least. _When I did this with Brienne, I had both hands still…_

The High Septon acknowledged King Joffrey and Cersei, “Your Grace. Your Grace.” 

_Fuck me._

“My Lords, My Ladies.” 

Jaime hated himself. 

“We stand here in the sight of Gods and men to witness the union of man and wife.”

Jaime’s only hand and phantom fingers grasped at nothing while his feet prepared for an escape he couldn’t complete. But with over a hundred people allowing and witnessing this marriage, Jaime realized his imprisonment had only just begun. 

“One flesh, one heart, one soul. Now and forever.”

It was too late.

_Forgetting  
all the hurt inside you’ve learned to hide so well  
Pretending   
someone else can come and save me from myself_


	18. Chapter 18

Their loud reception held tables upon tables full of drunk people and food. Dried fruits, seasoned meats, fresh bread and savory pie sprawled out on each table. Jaime enjoyed his wholesome, heavy bites with a warm cider: sweet and faintly sour to cleanse the palate. For the first time, he wished people from his time could taste everything in front of him. Even the wine probably tasted amazing, but Jaime did not partake. When asked why he didn’t drink ale or wine, Jaime pretended he wanted to remember his wedding night. In truth, a depressant was still a depressant. One drink could lead to another, and another drink could lead to relapse. He had seen it enough in other people. _People who don’t exist yet._

His new wife, Sansa, sat still and straight postured next to him, not touching her dinner. Jaime wondered if she felt as awkward as he did. Whenever he glanced over at her, their eyes always met for a moment, then both looked away. Sansa resembled her mother, who Jaime remembered had been killed— and Lannister’s claimed responsibility. _And they say her father killed the Jaime before me._

Tables adjacent to the bride and groom’s seated the rest of the damned Lannisters. Cersei threw subtle daggers with her eyes towards Jaime and Sansa. Her gaze only softened after an awkward Jaime agreed to allow Sansa to leave the table. Joffrey stood, although Cersei reached up to hold his arm. Jaime intended to ignore everyone as Sansa excused herself. She neglected to take his anguish with her.

While the food tasted wonderful, the music spoke louder to Jaime’s soul. It soothed him to his core, and his right heel couldn’t help but tap along to the beat of each song. He, somehow, survived without hearing music for weeks. Lively tunes of his reception didn’t agree with his mood, but Jaime enjoyed every note and chord nonetheless. Almost everyone else talked over the small ensemble.

Time passed with Sansa still absent, and when the small band paused for an intermission, Jaime rose. Stale air filled with alcohol laced breath, candle smoke and spilled wine confronted him as he walked over to Tyrion, who drank under their father’s judging eye. Jaime started a casual conversation with his brother, and they danced over topics neither of them cared about, due to the fear of Tywin listening in. Still, it felt good to discuss _something_ with his only friend.

A slender arm snaked between his left bicep and chest. Jaime discovered Cersei next to him, smiling a believable grin towards her other brother and father. “Come,” she said, “let me show you your gift.”

Jaime bid as she told him. As they walked through a separating crowd, Cersei leaned in and smiled, “I know you need no advice on your wedding night.”

Jaime dropped his head with a frown. 

Cersei squeezed him harder. “I remember my wedding night, a horrible thing,” she said with a positive tone and smile as they walked up steps to a balcony. Jaime remained quiet. They arrived to the open balcony, alone and above the reception.

“Do you remember our first time? What I wore?” Cersei tilted her head to study him.

Jaime forced a smile and a weak laugh. “Of course,” he lied, and his eyes searched for escape. Below, Sansa talked with King Joffrey and not far away, his Kingsguard watched alongside stiff Brienne. The tall, awkward woman looked like a long fish standing on land. Jaime’s poor bride likely had no knowledge of who the lumbering beast was or why she followed her.

“What did you like about it, remind me,” Cersei asked, interrogating him in a pleasant tone.

About to be caught in an unbelievable lie, Jaime panicked. He glanced to Cersei, who appeared triumphant, and then back down to Sansa, Joffrey and Brienne. He needed to be vague and cryptic, in case he spoke a wrong word. Avoiding the subject would only cause more issues, and he already avoided Cersei enough to raise her suspicions. Jaime’s eyes latched onto Brienne, who wore dull, ill fitting clothes. The inspiration came naturally to him. “It was ugly,” Jaime said, still gazing at Brienne. “And it barely fit you. But that didn’t matter, you looked beautiful in anything and everything. You were even more beautiful with nothing on.” 

_A warrior. Stronger than me. An uncut diamond, innocent, yet fearless of death. Honest. Irreplaceable._

Cersei pulled Jaime out of his thoughts with a single sniffle. He broke his gaze from Brienne as a tear spilled down Cersei's cheek. Unable to see her in such pain, Jaime reached out to wipe the tear away. Cersei forced a weak smile, and for a moment, he thought of her as his true sister... the sister he never grew up with.

After taking a sip from her goblet, Cersei stood closer to Jaime and peered into the crowd below. “This wine is vintage,” she said, “from when we were children. It makes me feel like all my troubles are gone, just for a moment. I feel whole.” She swirled the wine in careless circles, and a few drops fell to the floor below them. Cersei added, “I crave it. The taste of passion. You’ve had it before, long ago. You wanted nothing else at the time. You promised you’d drink nothing else.” Her eyes dried and she grabbed his only remaining hand. As she squeezed his flesh between hers, she said, “You won’t find it in Casterly Rock, you won’t find it in Essos, or wherever you’ve been. You’ll only find it here.”

Jaime, without hesitation, pulled his hand away with a brief smile. “I don’t drink wine,” Jaime said.

Cersei’s neck tightened.

“What did you _say_?” Joffrey’s whiny shriek caused a sudden stop to the festivities. Joffrey leaned into Sansa’s personal space and Brienne puffed up her chest to intervene. Alarmed Kingsguard members followed suit while Tyrion waddled into the fray to help mitigate. 

Jaime’s heart dropped. He ran down the stairs, ignoring Cersei’s plea to leave Joffrey alone. In the mere seconds it took him to arrive, Brienne already stood between Sansa and Joffrey. _Stupid woman._ Tyrion tugged on Sansa’s hand, who refused to move. King Joffrey awaited his response, trying his best to threaten the two women standing in front of him. 

Edging his way in, Jaime placed a soft hand on Sansa’s shoulder. He whispered, “Go with Tyrion, I’ll handle this.” 

Sansa tried killing Jaime with a single look. 

In response, Jaime deflected to Tyrion and asked, “Why don’t you request a song?”

“The Rains of Castamere?” Tyrion asked, still offering a hand to Sansa.

Urgent and in no mood for questions, Jaime said, “Yes, yes, I’m sure that’s a lovely song.”

Tyrion stopped, frowned and stared at Jaime for a moment. To Jaime’s surprise, Sansa stepped down and away from both brothers. The situation, however, did not simmer down as he hoped.

Joffrey asked Brienne, “Creature, which do you prefer, your tongue or your fingers?”

Unafraid, Brienne said, “Your Grace—” 

“Answer me!” 

Jaime stepped closer. This entire meltdown reminded him of previous bandmates or spoiled actors who thought they could yell their way out of anything. If the King told everyone to jump off a cliff, half or more would oblige. Jaime needed to speak and act with care: a hard promise to keep.

“King Joffrey,” Jaime said, and the boy’s eyes glared over to him. “She needs both.” 

Joffrey’s nose glared and lips twisted. 

So far, Jaime’s tactic failed to work. Music played again, and with less eyes observing the melodramatic outburst, Jaime said, “She is my guest at court and for you, she’s pledged to kill Stannis.”

Joffrey frowned as he contemplated Jaime’s words. The musician's words haunted Jaime.

_And so he spoke, and so he spoke  
That lord of Castamere  
And now the rains weep o’er his halls  
With no one there to hear_

Joffrey’s eyes gazed up and down Brienne’s length. In an instant, the King’s demeanor relaxed. “You’re the beast who killed Renly?” he asked.

Brienne opened her mouth and Jaime stepped forward, placing what would have been his right hand on her tightening fist. A wonder to him, Brienne did not flinch at the cold contact of metal. 

“She did,” Jaime replied for her. Jaime’s breath caught in his throat, waiting for Brienne to spill out the truth.

A look of disbelief washed over the King, followed by a smirk. “A cow won’t kill Stannis standing here. Away with you,” Joffrey said, turning before Brienne had a chance to bow. She bowed anyway, but the tension lingered even after Joffrey left. The King and his men headed towards the tables and Brienne hunched herself away from the crowd. 

Brienne avoided Jaime’s eyes and he refused to accept it, so he followed her. As she rounded a corner in a dimly lit hallway, Jaime blocked her from escaping with his right arm. Out of instinct, she towered over him, trying to intimidate him. Jaime remained unphased.

“No, no, no,” Jaime said. He pressed his lips into a thin line. “Don’t fight the King unless you want me to lose the other hand.”

She glared down at him— red undertone beneath her brown freckles. Based on her jetting chin, lowered brow and clenched jaw, he knew there was more to the story. Her expression said enough, but it didn’t matter.

“Calm down before you get yourself killed. He’s a sack of shit,” he whispered, “and sacks of shit aren’t worth it.”

The menacing woman softened, as if she transformed into a different person. Her pale eyelashes batted into blinks against her distracting blue eyes. Jaime would be a liar not to admit he enjoyed affecting a powerful woman. He smiled, and continued to grin when he noticed the lack of space between their bodies. A burning, pent up energy swelled in the back of his throat. As a means for treatment, Jaime stepped away from enclosing Brienne. They both breathed as their personal space returned.

“May you have a happy marriage to Lady Sansa,” Brienne said after clearing her throat. 

Jaime rolled his eyes as he mulled over her nuance. Brienne straightened her back and clasped her hands in front of her, like any proper lady should. _She’s joking._ She needed to lie and hold back her emotions if she wanted to survive at court. 

Jaime smirked. “I was happily married, once.” 

Brienne’s eyes widened. _Got her._

Before Jaime could milk out the conversation and tease her further, she bowed and started to walk away. Jaime reached out with his left hand to clasp her retreating hand. They felt soft, warm and strong. Brienne whirled her head around with fearful eyes. She stopped jerking away and changed her mind, allowing him to still hold her hand. 

Jaime needed her to know his intentions. “Seriously, I will take care of her before I leave,” Jaime said.

“I know you’ll try,” Brienne said. Her delicate hand retreated from his and returned to her side.


	19. Chapter 19

Their uneventful wedding night ended in a room surrounded by lingering giggles outside. Sansa ignored Jaime, who insisted on keeping as much space between them as possible. She was a stranger— and a child. Instead, he paid more attention to his new displayed suit of armor. Lions adorned the shoulders, and Jaime swore he had never seen anything so dignified. However, laughs from outside their door distracted him. They would never leave. Jaime considered putting on a show for them. Without a hand, he couldn’t play instrumental music, but he knew the power of his voice. They’d love to hear him moan, sigh and grunt his way through a realistic consummation. But the idea of mortifying Sansa more halted him. _I should have pulled that trick with Brienne, just to see her reaction. She’d be permanently red for the rest of her life._

Now Lord of Casterly Rock, Jaime didn’t need or want to explain _why_ he didn’t consummate anything. He had a much more important goal to achieve. Jaime mulled over his options of escape throughout the week. And as time went on, he wanted to keep his oath rather than break it and leave. He needed a plan for Sansa’s safety. They shared their meals together, and Jaime asked about her family— a touchy subject, to say the least. She harbored resentment towards him for his Lannister name and spoke as little as possible.

“I met your mother,” Jaime said during breakfast, once. 

Sansa’s eyes lifted from a daze.

“She hit me right across the head, and rightfully so. I— ” he paused, “made a promise to her. To return you and Arya to her.”

“And you did just the opposite,” Sansa said in spite. Those were her first words to him in days. 

Her mean emotion stunned him. He had nothing to do with this angsty teenager’s problems. “What I’m _trying_ to do is ask where you want to go, who else would protect you? Should anything happen to me, I want to make sure you’re safe,” Jaime said.

Sansa’s eyebrows tensed as she answered, “So you can murder them next?”

Jaime held his tongue. _Gods, I’m getting nowhere._ He needed more information. If she wouldn’t talk, he knew who would.

Petyr Baelish really did know everything. He told Jaime of a bastard brother in the Night’s Watch, but of course, women were unwelcome. Her home had been destroyed, and Robb’s unflinching honor estranged most of their allies. Her younger brothers were burned alive. Except, Petyr heard Arya was alive, traveling with a pack of wolves through Westeros. Just a rumor, Petyr emphasized. Jaime felt helpless, an emotion his companion picked up on.

“Is there something else I can help with, Lord Jaime?” Petyr smiled.

“No, you’ve helped enough. I needed to know more about her and her home.” 

“Her home now is with you, Lord Jaime,” Petyr answered.

_Not for long._ Many, many weeks had passed since he arrived at the edge of time. Fourteen weeks. He hoped, for a long time, his entire adventure would turn out to be a dream. He still did, but he didn’t want to forget it. Most of it, at least. In rehab, he learned to make the most of adversity. Losing his hand felt more than adversity. It felt like a death sentence. In his world, back home, he would turn into some pathetic limp noodle groping a microphone at every concert. As soon as Jaime would return to modern times, he would lose everything all over again. In a strange, foreign way, he did not look forward to it.

Before his travels to Casterly Rock with his teenage hostage, Jaime asked to meet Brienne in the White Sword Tower. He failed to understand the identity of the tension between them, but they enjoyed each other’s company as Brienne read through the White Book... as friends. Her careful hands turned each page— and she smiled. She kept talking and talking— an absolute miracle. Jaime caught himself staring at her on multiple occasions. _Her lips are the same color as—_

“Your page is half empty,” she said. Brienne looked at Jaime and frowned. 

Jaime wanted to thank her for interrupting his unbidden thoughts, but he held himself back. Instead, he corrected her and said, “ _His_ page. Then he was killed.”

“Seek revenge,” she said. Her voice changed to a more serious tone, a noise he both detested and treasured.

Jaime winced, shrugged and stepped over to another table. He could barely handle his own problems, so he brushed off the thought of solving someone else’s. His sword rested on the table, unused and in its sheath. Jaime patted his remaining fingers on the leather belt. “Come closer,” Jaime said. He continued to stare at the sword while silence returned to the room. 

She hesitated, walked over, and by the time she did, Jaime unsheathed the metal in his clumsy grip. He turned, soon offering the blade to her. In the middle, their hands brushed together during the transfer. Glittering with rich gems and a golden lion, the pommel caught Jaime’s eyes. 

In awe, Brienne focused on the marbled moonlit swirls. “Valyrian steel,” Brienne said with a quick and subtle smile. 

Jaime nodded and said, “It’s yours.”

Offended, she wide eyed him and said, “I can’t accept—”

“It’s forged from Ned Stark’s sword,” he said, having prepared for her refusal. “You’ll use it to defend Ned Stark’s daughters. You swore an oath to return the Stark girls to their mother. Arya was spotted alive recently. In Westeros. I am responsible for Sansa and that leaves you to find Arya and get her somewhere safe.” 

Brienne stayed silent. A victory. 

Jaime breathed in and looked across the room. “I’ve got something else for you.”

He unveiled a dark blue suit of armor with the hint of a woman’s shape. Jaime had instructed Petyr to complete the design with functionality as a priority, but suns and moons were added to represent Tarth’s sigil. _I hope I got your measurements right._

Brienne stood speechless as if in a dream. Entertained by her reaction and desiring more, Jaime said, “Blue is a good color for you, it matches your eyes.” 

She ignored him, eyes too shy to return his gaze. “I’ll find her… For Lady Catelyn,” Brienne said, and the strain in her voice captured his attention. “And for you.”

Brienne still averted her shy eyes, but the quiver in her articulation said everything. She admired him. Affection was no different in ancient Westeros, and he knew it well. Famous men like Jaime encountered admiration almost daily. Every girl’s obsession bored him. Except, this time, he felt an immense sense of pride and appreciation. She hated him— at first… and likely still did. She had seen the worst parts of him, yet she admired him. 

Jaime lifted his chin and managed a small smile. “I’ve heard the best swords have names. Call this one Oathkeeper.”

“Oathkeeper.”

This time, her eyes met his. He wasn’t a real Kingslayer or a real Ser, but the way she gazed at him made him feel like a true knight for first time. She idolized him, and in that moment, he realized didn’t just respect her— he idolized her, too. He would be a fool to deny it, especially with how much effort he went to replace her lost sword and armor. _A belated wedding gift to my former wife._ Jaime tapped his fingers on the lower hemline of his leather tunic. “I’ll keep Sansa safe and ensure she’s protected before I leave,” he said, soon realizing their goodbye was imminent. 

The reality dawned on Brienne as well, whose eyes lingered on his face for longer than usual. Something changed. It bothered him to think of never seeing her again. She represented everything he wanted to become: an honorable and talented person. He had been too naive, more than her, to think so little of a young woman. He once wished to never see someone so ugly ever again. Now, he tried his best to memorize her face, because there were no cameras to capture her... nothing at all for him to remember her face. And he wanted to remember.

Farewells bothered him, and this entire adventure represented an unwelcome long goodbye.

_Had a drink of you  
Think I drank too much  
Cause you had me blurry eyed  
Every time we touched_

“Goodbye, Brienne,” he said, fighting back all unknown, swelling emotions. For once, he fought better than her, and her face contorted in distress. Jaime exited, leaving her alone with her new sword, armor and anguish. His soft footsteps barely echoed as he walked through the hallway while the pain in his heart pounded louder and louder.


	20. Chapter 20

When provided the choice to sit in a carriage all day with his _lovely_ wife or ride a horse, Jaime chose the latter. He wore his immaculate set of new armor: crimson, gold and dark. It weighed on him, along with his responsibility, but the sturdy metal resting on thick leather kept him warm in autumn air. Squires, something he never knew existed, fought to help him dress and undress in his armor. He didn’t know what else to do with them.

With his squires, pages, new wife, ladies in waiting, servants, carriages, horses and Lannister men, Jaime set off to travel from King’s Landing to Casterly Rock in Lannisport. Home… only the wrong timeline. He planned to fix that soon. _What’s a few more weeks in this place anyway?_ He only needed to find somewhere safe for Sansa before leaving.

The first day of their adventure felt like a breath of fresh air compared to the capital. No disgusting smells filled the air— only scents of grass, wheat and soil. With great weather, they expected to arrive to Casterly Rock within three weeks time. In a car, even crossing borders, it would take him half a day. Westeros’ amazing landscape views almost made up for the lost time.

Jaime spent most of his days listening and quizzing his squires about knighthood. _I might as well learn about history now._ Without Brienne’s listening ear or _joyful_ conversation, the young teenagers had to make do. Jaime learned how knights came from the Andals. They discussed the ceremony, practices and types of knights. Anyone could be knighted, either by another knight or ruler, but they needed to demonstrate the skill and talent to deserve the title. His squires didn’t know it, but they taught Jaime almost everything there was to know about knights. 

His restless mind struggled at meal times with his new bride. Sansa remained quiet, and Jaime didn’t blame her. He left her alone, hardly ever talking to her. Practiced and calm, Sansa held a polished demeanor with every breath she took. He couldn’t read her like Brienne. He wondered if Sansa felt thankful for leaving King’s Landing, but never mustered up the courage to ask. She had to feel relieved. Tyrion had enlightened him of the lifetime of abuse Joffrey inflicted on her. If taken too soon, Jaime’s adventure to the Isle of Faces would be a bitter one if he didn’t resolve his promise to protect her. He needed ideas. Maybe Essos or Dorne, but those places were more foreign to him than her. The differences in political climate would bite him in his ass and asking questions would do more than raise eyebrows. Jaime was supposed to be a well traveled man in a world where he knew almost nothing and no one.

He spent his nights alone, emphasizing that he and his lady have their own separate rooms at each inn. With each new day, Jaime felt more comfortable in his armor. Despite a daily thin blanket of clouds blurring the sun, its rays darkened his face and lightened his hair, which now draped golden locks above his eyebrows. His seat no longer felt sore from long rides and he preferred the sturdy craftsmanship of his boots to fashion sneakers. As a bonus, a servant shaved his stubble every other day. Jaime wondered if he started to enjoy his time or if he tried to justify his situations for his own sanity.

His casual thoughts often drifted to Brienne: stubborn and singular creature. Even with supplied armor, sword and coin, Jaime worried about her safety. He regretted sending her off, in a way, but it was another permanent mistake. Her poignant emotions, though few, bothered him as well. He wondered if he falsely dreamed of her expression of longing in the White Sword Tower. _That look…_

Earlier than expected by a couple days, they came up to Deep Den, a castle on the Gold Road that rested among the rocky hills and slopes. He recognized the area, because he owned a home there… in modern times. A mansion. Every rich celebrity and CEO owned a home in these beautiful mountains. Depending on the side of the mountains, the beach was only a couple hours drive away. Jaime closed his eyes at the sound of a large waterfall. Jaime wanted to savor his last few days in ancient Westeros.

Their party decided to stay a couple days at Deep Den castle in order to recuperate energy for the future mountainous terrain. His exhausted bride only guilted Jaime more for feeling invigorated. 

Slowly but surely, Jaime grew into the role of a commander. When men, squires, pages and servants asked him for direction, Jaime no longer drew blanks. Confidence carried him a long way, and out came his natural certainty. Jaime always had the option of letting someone else manage for him, but he found no fun in that. He enjoyed speaking with each carriage driver about their equipment instead of ignoring them— like he would have before. He discovered Sansa’s carriage needed the most repairs and Jaime hoped her ride would be smoother from that point on.

On the second day at Deep Den, Sansa and Jaime ate a quiet supper in a garden between the castle and the forest. If there was one similarity that Sansa and Jaime shared, it was their mutual love for nature. Sansa barely ate, as usual. She either continued to grieve her family, meant to use it as punishment towards him or some other cryptic motivation he failed to understand. However, this meal felt... different. Her fingers toyed with the edge of the tablecloth. He thought of it as a mild curiosity until she opened her mouth. 

“I want to thank you,” Sansa said, sounding sincere. “You’ve been kind to me… so far.”

Jaime set down the utensil in his left hand. With furrowed brows, he neglected hiding his concern.

“May I be excused, My Lord? I wish to pray in the woods— alone,” Sansa said.

He cleared his throat and nodded in silence. Words didn’t come to him until Sansa stood. “Take one of your ladies,” Jaime said, but Sansa had already beckoned one to join her. 

He felt like a fool for not responding to Sansa appropriately. _”You’re welcome” aren’t the right words after what my father did._ The distinction of family, in his mind, confused him. Jaime sat alone, pondering how he identified himself. Jaime Lannister meant two different lives, yet no one around him was one the wiser. Everyone thought of him as Ser Jaime Lannister or Lord Jaime Lannister, not some drug addict, handless musician from another time. Seven Hells, even Brienne, the only person who knew his true identity, called him Ser Jaime. He liked that name. The only person with doubts of his purpose in this world was himself, and those doubts started fading.

A pair of loud boisterous men interrupted his thoughts. Jaime turned to see two guards grabbing and tearing the flesh of dried fruit in their teeth. Brought to anger, Jaime stood and turned to them. “Why aren’t you on the perimeter?” Jaime asked. His eyes pierced through them while they froze.

After one of them chewed and swallowed their food, he said, “We’re relieved, M’lord. Sansa dines with you and then retires in the— ”

Jaime’s stomach fell to the ground. Sansa was escaping. Jaime whirled around, leaving his armor and sword behind him as he rushed into the forest. A few clumsy armored guards followed along. Between tall pines, giant boulders and changes in elevation, Jaime gave his best guess where Sansa went. Sunlight no longer hid behind clouds, and the ground glittered.

_The looking glass so shiny and new  
How quickly the glamor fades  
I start spinning slipping out of time  
Was that the wrong pill to take_

Minutes passed by like hours. Panic consumed his mind, wondering if Sansa planned it all along, or was kidnapped, or worse: wanted to end her life. Jaime ordered several soldiers to split up and cover ground. He felt a bit ridiculous in a simple leather laced tunic without armor or sword, but the unusual heat and stress of the day made him sweat more than he welcomed.

A shout echoed between trees.

Jaime lunged over to the source: a guard standing at the top of a small hill. Jaime’s guard descended down the hill. His legs climbed fast enough for his eyes to see several men sword fighting below while someone dragged Sansa away. Her sleeves hung in torn rags while she tried to pull herself separate from the unknown man. Two Lannister soldiers joined the fight, and that left three men in dark clothing, two scared woman and one towering knight with dark blue armor and white sword— “Fucking Brian!” Jaime shouted.

 _What the fuck does she think she is doing?! Taking Sansa?!_ He couldn't believe Brienne stalked them without anyone ever knowing. Jaime stormed down the hill in rage. This woman was something else. 

Brienne’s sword movements put Jaime’s squires to shame. Her feet pivoted in a whirl, allowing her sword to sing through the air. Brienne thrust her blade towards the man taking Sansa. _Brienne’s defending her, not taking her._

However, Jaime’s guards did not know Brienne. A Lannister man leapt towards Brienne with two quick, imprecise thrusts. His sudden engagement distracted her, and she changed direction to evade him. She looked damn graceful, until her the back of her hand smacked the man in the face. It looked like it hurt.

“Stop,” Jaime commanded, and of course, only his guards listened. He needed to figure out how to join in and help, but chaos ensued. Due to the Brienne’s lack of attention, one of the armed men stabbed Sansa’s servant in the chest. A chilling cry erupted from Sansa’s mouth as the man yanked her away from the scene. Jaime charged over to her while Brienne cleaned up the rest of the problem, slicing Oathkeeper’s sword in and out of the other two men like practice dummies. Jaime’s guards watched in awe.

Sansa may or may not have planned this escape, but the reality of such a feat did not appear to dawn on her. Sansa’s lips trembled, shoulders hunched and eyelids closed. Trying to be a knight, Jaime confronted the man, who held Sansa’s back against his own chest. Jaime’s gallantry melted away as the man’s sword came swinging down towards him. He could hear the air move aside for the blade, allowing the metal a clean pathway to the top of his head. A fool with decent reflexes, Jaime crouched down and reached up with his right hand. The small opening between the gold thumb and fingers caught the blade, singing as metal touched metal. The aching force of the contact startled Jaime. He froze.

“Aye, he said I get extra gold for killin' a dead man come back to life,” the man said with a grin. Sansa quivered between them as he pulled his blade out from Jaime’s metal hand.

The statement bothered Jaime more than the man’s winding arm. _Who’s he?_ Jaime prepared his half useless shield of a hand for another blow, and a sword jolted right beside Jaime’s head to land in the man’s throat. Sansa gasped as blood flowed onto her before the man fell to the ground. Frightened by the sudden sight, Jaime leaned his body back, colliding with Brienne. Her bloodied sword scared him further, and his legs lost footing with the ground. He started to fall but Brienne’s long, strong arms caught him before yanking him back up and against her armored chest.

Mixed with embarrassment, fear and outrage, Jaime lashed out at Brienne, “Why the Seven Hells did you kill him? They’re all gone, along with their information!”

“Next time, I’ll let them slice you,” Brienne said, and she let him go. 

He stumbled forward, not realizing how much he leaned onto her for support. Jaime turned to challenge her in a fit of rage. She looked calm, of all things. It infuriated him more. “Next time?! What are you doing here?”

“You think I’d trust her with you?” she asked, avoiding eye contact and wiping her sword on boiled leather as if nothing consequential had happened.

Jaime scoffed and turned to Sansa, who still remained paralyzed by fear and covered by blood. Jaime grasped her forearm and dragged her over to the soldiers. When his soldiers offered to take Sansa back, Jaime declined. His soldiers scrambled to ask what they should do with the other woman. 

Jaime glared back at Brienne before facing his soldiers again. He said, “Bring her to me. I haven’t decided what I want to do with her yet.”


	21. Chapter 21

Jaime refused to let Sansa clean or bathe until she answered his questions. The three of them stood in his chambers at the inn, dark and rustic. Sansa’s stubbornness and silent treatment made him feel like a father catching a child in a dangerous lie. He insisted on getting the truth from her. Brienne prepped and started a fire, listening in. He tried his best to ignore the distraction by pestering Sansa for answers. Jaime hit dead end after dead end with Sansa, and the unyielding teenager refused to budge. Sansa claimed to know nothing. Jaime held himself back when he felt desperate enough to use the same tactics his father used on him: harsh punishment. No.

“It’s late. Go,” Jaime said, giving up on the poor girl. Sansa clutched herself into an embrace and stepped towards the door. Brienne abandoned the fire and moved to follow Sansa.

“Not you,” Jaime ordered.

Brienne stopped midway through the room. When the door opened, several guards escorted Sansa through the hallway. Brienne remained still, watching Jaime as he stepped forward. Her posture straightened as the door closed. Ready for the next interrogation, Jaime faced her.

“You have a lot of explaining to do,” Jaime said.

Brienne looked almost relieved, as if she expected a different reaction from him. Firm, yet calm, she said, “I have been following Lady Sansa and asking for Lady Arya along the way. No one has seen her. Lady Arya could very well be close by and my instincts— ”

“I know your instincts,” Jaime said in frustration. _You don’t trust me._ On some level, it hurt, but he also understood her instincts made her a great fighter. Jaime continued, “While I thank you for rescuing her, you eliminated any possible chance discovering who they worked for.” They worked for someone who wanted him dead. _Who wants me dead?_

Brienne tightened her expression. He offended her. She asked, “You want me to explain why I killed a man who was going to kill you?”

“No, I know why,” Jaime said and she averted her eyes. Jaime’s hand and jaw clenched while he considered mocking her bashful, shy nature. After a long, drawn out breath, he decided against it and remained focused. “I want to know what happened, what you saw,” he clarified. 

In his observation, Brienne flustered. Her hands clasped in front of her while her chin lowered to her chest. Her awkwardness turned infectious, and he feared he was her next victim. Jaime stepped over to the fire, hoping it would ease any unnamed tension swirling throughout his room. She made him uneasy.

“I apologize. I— ” she stumbled for words and closed her eyes. “I noticed the three men following you at the Blackriver crossing. I thought nothing of it until I saw them camp here. They stayed a day longer, just as you were, so I trailed behind them in the woods. I saw Sansa, and her lady looked to be leading her. I observed as they met, and— ” Brienne looked over to him and paused. He waited for the rest. Brienne looked away and said, “One man started pulling on Sansa. She resisted. Her lady and the men argued. I jumped in.”

Jaime nodded and turned back to the fire as he mulled over details. Sansa had reason to escape, he would have been a fool to deny it. _Who is helping her?_ Littlefinger said so himself, Sansa had no close relatives or safe places. That led to the next possibility: her being taken against her will. Or, perhaps someone deceived her. Still staring into the fire, Jaime asked, “Are you joining our Lannister escort?” Despite the stress of their reunion, Jaime enjoyed having Brienne back. She was his antidote to temptation and weakness. He hoped she would say yes.

Annoyed, Brienne said, “I told you, I don’t serve the Lannisters— ”

Jaime rolled his eyes and faced her. “Gods, Brienne, I know. What if I asked you to stay and keep me company?”

“What for?” she asked, scowling like he was a fool.

“What else? To keep me company. Protect Sansa, since you clearly find me so inept. If anything, you should give me a chance to prove my competence.”

“Competence in what, My Lord?”

_Gods_ , she was so blunt, forthright and obtuse— it made him nauseous. “Let your imagination run wild,” he said and managed a smile. _Why do I bother?_

Brienne blinked and ignored him. She pondered it for a moment. “I will consider it.”

“Good. Now get out of my room before you annoy me to the point I change my mind. Stop by Lady Sansa and see if she’ll confide anything in you. Go in as a brute or a soft maiden for all I care, any information will help.” Brienne said nothing as Jaime walked past her. He walked to the door and said, “I’ll find a room suitable for you, and I’m sure you’ll need a rested horse for the travels ahead. I’ll have a bath drawn for you, although, knowing you, you may decline it. And a late supper can be provided. No fish, I’m afraid, but I know you’ll appreciate their fare.” Jaime pulled the door open and created room for Brienne to walk through the doorway. 

She followed his verbal cues and stepped out before turning to bid him farewell. Brienne nodded her thanks, staring for just a bit too long at him. He wondered what lush thoughts crossed her mind. Instead of keeping her thoughts to herself, she said, “You’re starting to sound like a lord, My Lord.”

_Not lush enough, I'm afraid._ As a gut reaction to her opening up, he built his walls higher. He gave her a single nod in acknowledgement and half a smile.

“It suits you,” she said.

Her compliment broke through his barrier, and she stabbed him straight in his heart with her words. Jaime had no interest in staying in the past longer than necessary, that part never changed. But the idea of fitting in was a proud one. He winced once and said, “I’ll remind you well enough of my faults later, Lady Brienne.”

They stood there, staring at each other— immune from others in the hall. Stiff and awkward, Brienne walked away. Jaime’s eyes followed, focusing on her lack of femininity. Between her height and broad shoulders, she commanded the entire hallway with her presence. Several servants and soldiers scurried out of her way, and instead of feeling pity or shame, her power pleased him.

He closed the door amidst a smile, but an unwelcome silence surrounded him. With her gone, he expected a lack of her graceless judgement would lift weight off his shoulders— but his hand couldn’t stop flexing. He paced throughout his room while thoughts and images of her haunted him to the point of distraction and restlessness. Jaime managed to settle down for the night and closed his eyes, hoping to dream of home.

That night, his imagination ran wild. 

He stood on a stage in an empty stadium. Bright lights blinded him. Jaime raised his right hand to block out the light. His right hand. Jaime must have dreamed he lost his hand. Relief spread over him as lights shut off, but darkness scared him. Jaime’s eyes fell to the floor and discovered a guitar. His fingers itched and begged for release. As he reached down to grab the guitar, a new light distracted him from above: faint, white and pure. The moon.

“You don’t belong here,” a voice said. Jaime’s focus left the sky to see _her_ , sitting pale and beautiful in his luxury convertible: the car from the accident. Her hair, golden and no longer dark, framed her beautiful, perfect face. Jaime shook his head, witnessing a dream come true: the deadly accident never happened— no one died. He smiled. He was home with her. Jaime stepped towards the car. She flashed the brights on, revved up the engine and drove forward, colliding Jaime into the hood of the car as she rammed his body across and off the stage. 

_I deserve this._

Jaime fell, though far less than he expected. He landed naked on a mixture of sand and water. His eyes opened up to see the moon, bigger and brighter than he remembered.

“You belong here, with me,” he heard. Jaime stumbled up to see a woman faced away and dressed in a crimson silk dress. She wore a crown on golden hair. Jaime lunged for her. He expected his lover and found his sister instead. Cersei spun around, smiling with the same venom laced lipstick _she_ would wear. She held out her hands, lifted her palm close to Jaime’s face and revealed tiny circular white pills. “Try it. It feels better than anything you can imagine,” she said.

Jaime stared as parallels between the two women slapped him in the face. _No, I can imagine something better._

A warm touch landed on his arm. Jaime turned to see Brienne, naked as him, and with her other arm, she wielded Oathkeeper— glittering in the moonlight. 

“You’re a knight, Ser Jaime,” Brienne said.

Jaime melted. Cersei laughed, and Jaime watched her cackle. Cersei meshed together with _her_ again, reminding Jaime of their negative influence. _They're the same._ He shook his head and returned to face Brienne. _They're beautiful, but they're not you._

“I know there’s honor in you. I’ve seen it myself,” Brienne said.

Jaime stepped towards her— devoted to protecting her and covering her with widening arms. Instead, she rescued him. The other women vanished. Everything faded away until only Jaime and Brienne stood in an endless pit of darkness. As if she wasn’t embarrassed at all, she pointed her sword to the ground and ordered him to lie down. Jaime glanced down, but when his eyes rose again, he was already lying down and Brienne straddled him.

Electricity ran through him, drying his mouth and heating his skin. She held out Oathkeeper for him, and he grabbed it with reluctance. The metal pommel, still warm from her touch, fit perfectly underneath his right hand. The blade glowed in the moonlight, but Brienne shined brighter. Jaime twisted and rotated the sword in his hand, and Brienne’s hips did the same. He shot her an angry look and leaned up. With a firm hand on his chest, she refused his request to leave. Jaime let go of the sword and reached up for her face. Her cheek leaned into his palm, her fingers tightened around his skin and she slipped onto his cock. Jaime yielded. She rode him gracefully, and by the time he realized he was fucking her, he came. Jaime threw his head back and gripped whatever skin of hers he could find with both of his hands. Softly, she held him.

His eyes opened to see a red tree above him— the same tree he touched on the Isle of Faces. On the ground, he twisted his body to get a better look around him. His right hand stretched out to touch the tree, but he couldn’t reach his goal. His entire body numbed with each passing second. He couldn’t move. He was stuck. Paralyzed— 

Sweat beading, Jaime jolted awake from his dream. His breathing quaked while he brushed his left hand over his right, hoping to discover a returned hand. Instead, he found his numb, burning end of a stump. Only a dream. Jaime inhaled a deep, labored breath before sitting up in his bed. Wetness pooled near his navel. Not just a dream— A wet dream. Not just about _her_ — he dreamed of Brienne.

_I left you unprotected in the fortress of your mind  
Felt the rhythm of my heart beating out the words I couldn’t find_


	22. Chapter 22

Jaime grappled with begging Brienne to travel with him. The thought alone revealed to himself how much he cared for her. On his end, it bothered him to think of her sexually, but his cock ignored him and ached for attention when he recalled the dream. A wet dream should have decreased his drive, but it did just the opposite. His mind and body remained at a complicated disconnect, leaving him confused.

Confusion was a dangerous feeling.

Stress of travels and assaults did their best to help Jaime ignore his urges. After his squires helped him dress, Jaime joined all present lords and ladies at breakfast at Deep Den's dark and stuffy hall. Brienne sat several chairs away and ate a couple bites— not that Jaime noticed. Her features distracted him. She hadn’t grown more beautiful but he found himself happy in her presence regardless. 

At one point, Brienne walked over to greet Sansa and Jaime, seated at the table. Brienne cleared her throat and asked, “If it pleases My Lord and Lady Lannister, I would like to join your escort to Casterly Rock.”

Jaime struggled to hide his smile. Sansa remained quiet while Jaime twirled a utensil in his fingers, playing the silent tension like it an instrument. He performed so well that Sansa turned her head to gaze at him for an answer. Jaime smirked and stilled his hand. “Of course, Lady Brienne, you are welcome to join,” he said.

Brienne displayed a subtle wince as her eyes fell to the floor. “I’m no lady, My Lord.”

Jaime’s smirk continued, but he wrestled with her meaning. _Your voice, blush and body say otherwise._ Jaime ignored her comment with a polite nod. Sansa forced a small smile, and Brienne bowed and left.

When hooves and wheels met dirt road, Jaime steered his squires to start arguing about the best knight that ever lived. He sneaked away when they started talking about Ser Duncan the Tall.

Brienne preferred isolation, but Jaime could pick the giant out of a crowd or forest in a heartbeat. With one hand, he guided his horse to walk beside her mare. As soon as she noticed him, Brienne straightened her back and compelled her eyes forward and away from him. Her intentional disregard immediately soured Jaime. 

“I’ve learned a lot in the months I’ve been here,” Jaime said. He half expected her to reply with silence, and he was right. Hearing nothing, he glanced over to see her dressed in her armor with sword and belt at her hip. Jaime pestered further. “You never did pay that dowry, Lady Brienne”

Annoyed, she said under her breath, “I am not a lady, don’t call me that.”

Jaime shrugged and frowned. “I’ve seen all of you, and whether you want to be one or not, you are a lady,” he said.

Each visible freckle of hers reddened. 

_That’s it._ Jaime sent her a vicious smile, earning a repulsive expression from her. He laughed and relaxed his seat into his saddle.

“If you mean to mock me, My Lord, I—”

“Call me Ser Jaime. My Lord sounds so… old.”

Brienne sent him a side eye. Her responses, and lack thereof, baffled him. After a pause, she said, “Everyone else calls you My Lord now.”

“You are not everyone else. Just Jaime, if it pleases you.”

She loosened her features, giving him an opportunity to follow up with her about the previous night. He tilted himself over towards her, ready to become serious. Jaime said, “My men said those bandits were from the Riverlands. Any word from Sansa?”

Brienne’s head shook as their horses started jogging up a steeper part of a hill. Both riders leaned forward while seeking hooves sought out firmer ground. Briefly, the outside of their legs brushed up against each other. She pulled away, forcing more space between their horses. “I suspect she knows nothing,” Brienne said.

Disappointed in both her answer and body language, Jaime scowled to himself. Self doubt settled in. Yes, he was attractive and a great match, even more so in historic days, but Brienne had far more reasons to avoid any romantic feelings towards him. He was a foreigner, a cripple, a drug addict and a Lannister. A Kingslayer. _Why do I care?_ Their conversation became as quiet as the solitary world around them, until Jaime’s squires caught up with them. His squires bothered Jaime for fighting advice or anything to help them reach knighthood. Jaime deflected their requests as they rode on. It amused Jaime when Brienne tensed and faced forward, keeping quiet as stone. On occasion, Jaime glanced to his squires, expecting them to look at her in awe, but he caught a few of them snickering to themselves instead. Typical boys. Jaime tried his best to ignore them. Brienne did the same.

That night, with no inn closeby, the Lannister party set up camp and crimson tents. Sansa joined Jaime’s large tent and they engaged in awkward pleasantries while squires took off his armor. Over the past few weeks, especially with the recent escape attempt, Jaime tried to pick up on Sansa’s subtle behaviors. With no physical walls or castle to protect her, she built one in her mind for safety. Her experiences at King’s Landing changed her, no doubt. He could only tell by the deepness of her breathing that she appreciated as much space between the two of them as possible. She sighed relief when he left the tent.

Unwelcome in his own tent, Jaime found Brienne’s small, solitary tent. He entered unannounced. Brienne whirled around, still armored and alarmed at his rudeness. As skilled a woman as she was, she poorly hid her emotions. She frowned better than she smiled, and while Jaime appreciated both, he truly wanted to understand all of her. Since King’s Landing, she became harder to interpret.

“It’s hard to read a woman with so much armor on, if only I could help you take it off,” he said, peering at several torches. Light barely illuminated the tent, giving it this insufferable romantic setting. _Gods, I’m not myself._

Her serious expression attempted to shut him up and he refused to yield. Jaime walked over to the far side of the tent, away from any potential listening ears and said, “I’d offer to take off your armor for you, but—” Jaime raised his golden hand and stared at it while he awaited her response. She gave none. Brienne held her gaze at him in disapproval—scowling. Young again with her eyes on him, Jaime smiled.

“You don’t have a squire,” Jaime said, sounding more serious.

“I do not need a squire,” Brienne said, accepting their verbal dance together.

“Of course you do. Let me be your squire.”

“Do not be absurd.” 

Brienne broke their gaze and turned away from him, finding something productive to do with her time. She brought her hands up to her shoulders, fumbling at the ties to undo her armor herself. Inspired by the opportunity, Jaime stepped towards her back and reached out his single hand to help. Their warm fingers touched under the cold metal. Brienne stopped. He meant to make her nervous, and while he achieved that goal, he suffered the side effect of also growing anxious. They stood still in electric air. Brienne turned her head, sighed and said, “Pull that cord.” 

Jaime did. Excitement ran through him and he stepped closer. As his fingers wrapped around the small leather string tucked under her armor, and his golden hand hesitated above her lower back. In the end, he decided not to escalate anything by touching her more than necessary. Gods, though, his thoughts tempted him. 

She described each metal piece as he helped her take it off: names, order and purpose. Her shoulders came off first, then her arms. With the exception of his mind running wild, their behavior remained professional. He listened to the sound of her rather than the words she said. Her voice was everything to him. _Is she E major? Excitable._

With each leather cord he pulled, at her instruction, tension crescendoed until the knot pulled free. He came to the main torso piece that joined at the sides of her back, and Jaime noticed her difficulty in reaching the junction. He focused on untying the laced knot, but it, too, gave him trouble. He pulled and it refused to budge.

Firm in her voice, Brienne said, “Harder.”

All concentration washed away in an instant, and every muscle in his body breathed new life. Fire raged within him. _You don’t have to say it twice._ Jaime yanked the lace and her body towards him, imagining lewd interpretations in his mind’s eye. Her metal piece came loose as his trousers tightened. Whatever she wanted, he would pay it with interest. She stopped her own body from colliding into his. Brienne leaned forward, away from his spreading fingers and visions. _Why stop now?_

As if she heard him, she cleared her throat and said, “I can undo the rest.”

No. Vulnerability swallowed him. The space between them chilled and Jaime turned away, hiding his lessening arousal and conflicted face all the same. _Does she even want me? An old, talentless, crippled man?_ She continued to confuse him.

“Ser Jaime?” Brienne asked. He remained aloof to her observing him.

He loved that name. “Yes?” he said, still turned away.

“Do you want to learn these pieces or not?”

He cocked his head to the side and pivoted to find her curious and concerned. “Okay, fine,” he said, walking over to her.

“O— kay?” she asked, and it dawned on him that the word hadn’t been created yet. He didn’t even know what it originally meant. 

“Okay. It means— yes.”

“I’m the one teaching, not you,” Brienne said, peering down at him.

Jaime laughed. The more he got to know her, the more he grew fond of her. He said, “See, you’d be great with a squire.”

“I do not want a squire,” she said, placing her armor in its resting spot for the night.

“Why not? They’re eager to learn, just boys.”

“Even worse.”

“Why?”

The intensity of her hands increased, fussing with a metal piece needing no attention. Jaime leaned his hand forward and held the metal still, causing her hands to stop. She averted all eye contact, which concerned him more. “Tell me,” he asked. 

She blinked and her big lips disappeared into a thin, pressed line as she debated. She gave in, and told him a story— a sad one. After three failed betrothals, she left for Renly’s camp. While she prepared for mockery, a part that made Jaime wince, she didn’t prepare for kindness. It all started when someone sent their squire to clean her mail. Then he sent a gift. Another man brought her flowers and asked to ride with her. Someone else gave her a book about knights. Brienne smiled at the mention of the book. 

Gifts flooded her. Treats for her horse, honey, even a massage offer. When a man asked to train with her, that meant the most. Soon, everyone fought to be beside her, offering to do anything and everything. Someone even tried to kiss her. Jaime’s jaw clenched when he heard that part. The sources of those mens’ affections became clear to him.

Brienne continued, “Lord Randyll Tarly found the wager.” She sounded bitter, but more angry than heartbroken. Brienne blinked and closed her eyes. “He said the blame was mine. That I encouraged them.”

Jaime broke his silence in a soft voice, “Those men don’t deserve you.” _And neither do I._ It killed him. “The blame still wouldn’t be yours even if you knocked them into the dust,” he said, referencing one of the first comments Brienne said to him. 

“It’s no matter,” Brienne said, looking at Oathkeeper, “I’ll take a sword over a rose.”

_You can have both._ She looked at the sword as if it could turn into a rose if she wished hard enough. She wanted both. After everything she survived, she no longer expected it. She scowled.

Jaime straightened his posture and looked up at her. “I would be honored to learn how to fight from you. Please,” he asked.

She sent him a subtle smile, a small tug on the corner of her thick lips, a final chord that resolved all previous questions he held about her. It meant everything to him. She was as complex as music: an evocative mixture of strength and fragility that left him pleading for more. A slow, unrelentable build up of tension and stress until that moment of release— and Jaime smiled back.

_I had to lose to understand  
Strung out from all of this  
Pour out a thousand tears  
I never knew a kinder man_


	23. Chapter 23

As Lord of Casterly Rock, Jaime ordered his squires to respect Lady Brienne. They didn’t question him, and they traveled without snickering or mockery. They did, however, almost always follow him around, leaving him little time alone with Brienne. The weather, unlike his squires, refused to cooperate and they arrived to Casterly Rock a few days behind schedule. Frustrating wind and rainstorms lost their effect when Jaime marched up to Lannisport’s beautiful gates. His home. Skies appeared the same, always half raining and half shining, and ocean smells reminded him of home. Everything else felt like a strange dream. Roofs, doors, walls, streets— all appeared as if he stumbled into a medieval film set. As he rode into and through Lannisport, people welcomed him. Like a sold out concert, men clapped, women fainted, children cheered. Jaime half expected bras thrown his way, but sadly, none came.

Jaime and his escort continued through Lannisport and into a massive cavern shaped like a lion. In modern times, these caverns had either flooded or collapsed. He never imagined seeing them in person. As his league stepped through the cavern’s opening, an overwhelming smell of mineral dust mixed with sea breeze washed over him. Stone, red and gold, glittered everywhere, and unmistakable beauty of historic Casterly Rock filled his eyes. He rode his horse past a gallery of Lannister treasures and a peaceful godswood. _This belongs to my family. This belongs to me._

His first week at Casterly Rock, Jaime grew acquainted with his new home, although it reminded him nothing of modern times. No, he wanted to leave and he needed a plan for escape. Mulling, he had a few options: leave now and hope Sansa would be safe without a plan… or plan the right moment for the three of them to leave. Jaime hated planning. Casterly Rock and Lannisport prepared for war, which meant that sneaking away as Lord and Lady of Casterly Rock without being seen was nearly impossible. His next and best opportunity would a time when he’d have the least number of guards watching him and city guards who did not recognize him. Joffrey’s Wedding came to mind. But, it was almost eight months away… _I can’t wait that long, can I?_

With few moments alone, Jaime led a busy life as a lord. Sansa shared all meals, and people scheduled almost every other minute of Jaime’s day. Every morning, he “prayed” at the sept— something he dreaded. He also endured countless hours of hearing and deciding political matters: someone’s right to marry, tenant disputes, taxes, mining reports, etc. Lordship bored him. He joked through many conversations, but hardly anyone laughed. Two weeks passed before he caught up work left over from the castellan, Kevan Lannister, an uncle he never knew existed. Jaime’s only free time was after supper, and most nights, he fell straight into bed— alone. Sansa slept in her own, separate chambers.

On the faintest of friendliest terms, Jaime and Sansa started casual conversations at supper. Sansa took well to Casterly Rock, escaping Joffrey’s evil fingers. She spent most of her time sewing, reading or praying in the Stone Garden amid whispering red and autumn trees. Once, at supper, he asked Sansa, “What did you dream about, as a child?” _Gods, you’re still a child._

Sansa smiled and laughed to herself. Still smiling, she said, “I used to think I wanted to be a queen.”

 _I know a Queen Sansa._ Jaime forced a small smile and said, “Queen Sansa. A nice ring to it.”

“Now Lady Lannister,” she said, toying with a slab of ham on her plate.

“Sorry, I’m not a king,” Jaime said. He plopped a small piece of bread in his mouth and chewed while Sansa’s cautious eyes made their way over to stare at him.

In a weak voice, she said, “I wish King Joffrey a happy marriage.” Her face flashed a frown, however, and told him her true feelings.

Jaime leaned over and whispered, “Between you and me, I don’t care if he’s my nephew, he’s a little shit. Don’t tell him I said that.”

Sansa’s lips stretched to a meek smile. 

Jaime sat straight in his chair and gazed over at the wife he never wanted. He didn’t like her, but that wasn’t her fault. He needed to protect women even more in historical times. No different from Brienne, Sansa deserved respect. “You’d make a great queen,” Jaime said.

Sansa burst into a regal smile, chin straight and eyes fierce. And there— he saw it. It almost brought tears to his eyes as the reality hit him... Sansa— sitting _right_ in front of him, the Sansa _he_ married— would become Queen in the North. Jaime remembered learning about her in school: arguably Westeros’ most famous Queen. The queen who broke the North away from the Seven Kingdoms to keep her country independent for over a thousand years. The queen who never married or had children and died at a respectable old age. The queen who inspired hundreds of generations of little girls named Sansa in her honor and memory. Sansa was the queen every modern child learned in school.

Jaime leaned back while Sansa returned her attention to her food. She twirled a long, stringy carrot around her utensil, like it was a game. She was still only fourteen. _Not a queen, yet._ Jaime recalled the woods witch and her prophecy. _You will kill something you’ve lost, marry the Queen, but wear no crown._ He would wear no crown… _I won’t be married to you forever, what a relief._

He sighed. _Why do I even believe this shit, anyway?_ Jaime glanced away, recalling the rest of the prophecy in his meandering mind. 

_Your past becomes your future. Your love awaits you at the northern weirwood. You will kill something you’ve lost, marry the Queen, but wear no crown. You will make music that brings tears to your eyes. You will return home._

Only one part concerned him. His love. _Her._

 _What if she’s there, right now, waiting for me?_ Jaime winced in pain. As manipulative and callus as she was, she didn’t deserve his abandonment without a word or a goodbye. He needed to return back to her— back home… but he remained stuck. He needed to wait until the right moment.

Brienne, on the other hand, never left his mind, and Jaime saw her as his key to a safe return. No one understood him more than her, and he now knew it was impossible to reach the Isle of Faces without her protection. He did not know how to fight, leaving him as inexperienced as Sansa. 

Jaime carved out time for training, always after supper. Reluctant Brienne followed him to a secluded balcony near the beach. Cliffs, crags and sea blocked potential spies, he hoped, and it left them private in the setting sun. Well, it left Brienne annoyed. She asked why they needed to be so _secluded_. Jaime explained his lack of knowledge was the most important aspect to hide about himself. People would wonder why a knight would need to relearn what a crossguard was. _I still don’t know what a crossguard is._ After a roll of her eyes, Brienne agreed.

Jaime suffered their first hour in loud yawns. Brienne described technicalities, rules, safety, blah, blah, blah. His biting lip released into a pout when she revealed dull, wooden swords.

“They’re not as dull as you,” she said.

_Smart woman._

After a quick break and abandoning his golden hand, Brienne twisted her jaw and crossed her arms at the sight of him starting jumping jacks. He brought on a good sweat and warm up, all while Brienne watched him without a word. Next, he tried a one handed pushup— harder than he thought, and he almost blew up at Brienne when she chuckled.

“I’d like to see you do this!” Jaime said. Sweat stuck to his hairline.

She tossed her wooden sword to the ground and joined him, finishing an awkward, yet complete, one handed push up. _Fucking Gods, this woman._ Jaime’s dry mouth needed water. 

She lifted herself and stood over him. “Stop wasting time,” she said.

“I’m not _wasting_ time, I’m working out,” Jaime said. He climbed to standing, groaning in the process, and she blinked her eyes away. He exhaled a large, relaxed breath and decided to jog in place. When Brienne pinched the bridge of her nose and shook her head at him, he smiled. After a few minutes, his feet stopped and his breathless smile grew wider. Between deep breaths, he said, “Working each muscle in my arm, back, abs—” 

Brienne rolled her eyes and looked away from him. 

He wanted her to look at him. _I know how._ He reached down and untucked his tunic over his head. His smile sparkled more than his sweating skin. 

But her eyes turned wide and farther away. “Put that back on,” she said, angry and annoyed. She pleased him.

Jaime played innocent. “Why? It’s hot.”

He knew why but refused anyway. He wanted to tease her, make her blush and drive her wild. Before Brienne could throw a tantrum, he leapt over to a hanging branch and tried pulling himself up. His right stump, awkward, bare and open, tried to help himself into a pullup. Every muscle in his arm, shoulder and back ached, but he managed to pull his chin up to the branch. Impressing women was harder than he remembered, and it would take even more to impress a woman like Brienne. He glanced down to see her grimacing at him. It wasn’t the reaction he wanted.

Jaime hopped down and wiped his right forearm across his head. Discomfort remained in her tense eyebrows, cheeks and eyes.

“My stump disgust you?” Jaime asked, confronting his fear head on. _Why am I even doing this?_

She blinked and softened her entire face into a mellow stare. She opened her mouth and changed her mind several times. Waves crashed into rocks below them— the rhythm tried to calm him and his galloping heart, but he was immune. Finally, she said, “You sacrificed your hand for me and ask for nothing in return. No dowry, no consummation...”

 _That's what you're thinking?_ Her unexpected reminder jolted him to anger. Jaime stormed over to his fallen tunic and clenched it in his tight fist. “Dowries are ridiculous and so are maidenheads. Women aren’t property. Virginity isn’t something you _take_. It’s not some _gift_ you owe anyone, either.” He stepped towards Brienne with broad, confronting shoulders while her mouth parted open in shock. Jaime’s entire body trembled in rage. “I _am_ asking for something, I’m asking for you to train me. You can say no.”

“No,” she muttered, taken aback.

Jaime pulled his tunic back on and repeated, “No?” The fabric stuck to his damp chest and back.

“No— I mean—” Brienne said, “I want to. Yes.”

“Good,” Jaime said. He bent over to snatch a wooden sword, and each finger wrapped around the pommel of the sword like the neck of a guitar. His interaction with Brienne left him tired of playing games. “What are we waiting for?”

She blinked, nodded and reached down to grab her sword.

Jaime inhaled a deep breath, clenching the pommel while his eyes stared into the setting sun. _I am not myself._

_And I know that what I say just sounds absurd_  
_But you can read between the lines_  
_And you can savor every word_


	24. Chapter 24

Jaime waited to spar at Brienne’s insistence. Based on her skills and honor alone, he’d wait for her. She instructed every last drop of knowledge about the topic. According to her, he needed to learn footwork, set points and moves. With only one hand, his options remained limited, but hopeful. They practiced without swords first, daily, focusing on the movement of their feet. Brienne stepped forward, Jaime stepped back, and so forth. Steps forward and back— together. Like dancing or an art of motion. Like conversation, where Jaime tried his best to dominate her space and corner her, and she evaded him every time. Like music, except each movement was a note made visible. He almost forgot he was learning how to kill.

Jaime learned the art of footwork quickly, not that Brienne would admit it. Over and over again, she corrected him on form. _Sword level. Loose wrist. Bend knees._ He kept himself entertained by talking with her between her instructions, and she ignored him. Brienne held her sword steady for what seemed like hours, asking him to practice slow strike form against her again and again. All he wanted to do was _fight_ her.

Two weeks into their daily training, Jaime jogged down the steps to see Brienne waiting in the sun. She turned around and wore the same subtle smile that tugged on his heart strings. 

“You’re ready,” she said, smiling again.

Jaime squinted and tilted his head to the side in suspicion. Not wanting to question her, he turned to grab the practice sword and set himself in a neutral position, facing Brienne. Legs bent at the knees and feet angled well, his left hand held out the sword while his golden hand lifted in defense. 

Her small smirk faded away. Brienne stepped forward with her sword, explaining that he needed to be ready for attack at all times. Jaime hardly listened. Instead, her face caught his attention. Her cheekbones were dirty with a dark brown smudge blurred onto her pale, freckled face. She stepped closer.

“Are you— wearing— what is that?” Jaime said, narrowing his eyes towards her face.

“What do you mean?” Brienne asked.

Jaime leaned forward and pointed his golden hand towards her cheek. When she realized what he meant, she flushed red and flinched away.

“Nothing— Nothing.”

A laugh came from Jaime. He told her about bronzer months ago— as a joke! “You learned that from me!” he said.

“I did not.”

“Who then?”

Brienne struggled to respond. Catching honorable Brienne of Tarth in a lie was absolutely delicious. Jaime intended to pounce on every moment of opportunity and he wouldn’t leave a bit wasted. He bit his lip to hold himself back. _She wants to impress me. Distract me. Excite me._ Music fluttered in his stomach. _She is._

“Septa—” she started, but struck him with her sword on his side. He caught her in a lie and she caught him off guard.

“Ow!” In an instant, she made him angry.

“Always prepare for attack,” she said.

“You better prepare for what I have coming for you,” Jaime said, letting out a growl of frustration. He expected her to hide away like a bashful maiden, but she did no such thing. 

Brienne crouched further, readying for his attack with her arms and sword beckoning for him to come forward. She said, “Try me.”

 _I wish I did._ Jaime lunged forward and dropped the sword to give himself his only hand back. He hadn’t quite planned what he wanted to do with her when he reached her, but it didn’t matter. He leapt towards her and within seconds, she knocked him into the dust. While groaning, his scrunched eyes saw Brienne’s smirk illuminated by the sun behind her. The challenge infuriated him.

They sparred. He expected their fighting to simmer down or release any tension, but it did just the opposite. Time and time again, Brienne outmaneuvered his strikes and guards. She cornered him up against the edge of her wooden blade or the rocky cliffs. Every time, Jaime repeated through gritted teeth, “I yield.” His mind refused surrender. He broke out in a sweat, soaking down his back and chest while he heaved for air. Brienne remained calm, graceful and breathed with ease. He tried, tried and tried again— he failed, failed, and failed. By the end of their training session, sparring clouded his mind so much that he found it hard to focus on anything else. Every little thing bothered him— strands of hair sticking to his forehead, sweat trailing down his back— and the fucking, distracting brozner on her face. Nothing annoyed him more.

“You’ll get better,” she said. She walked beside him and he smelled her, riding a wave on her exhaling. Her scent made up for her lack of femininity and it stained his thoughts. 

His focus went to shit and his eyes scowled at the dirt on her cheeks. “And you look better with nothing on.”

The warrior inside her left, and she stood still— mouth agape and eyes wide.

Jaime recalled his words and looked away. “I meant the bronzer,” he said. The memory flashed through his mind’s eye: naked, wet— coils of steam rising off her body. _She does look better with nothing on._ Jaime parted his lips and released a stupid smile. 

She stared at him, brows lowered and lips full. 

_Kiss me._

She turned away and grabbed their swords. Jaime let out a small breath and closed his eyes. He imagined it anyway— her big lips sucking, tugging and toying with his. He became more aroused than repulsed, and twisting in his stomach confused him more. He needed to stop. Inhaling deep breaths and admiring the ocean, he calmed himself during his walk back to the castle. _It’s just battle lust._ But lust returned the next day during their sparring.

Sword ready, he prowled around her like a lion. A cool, humid light drizzle rained on them, soaking their clothes. Both of them ignored the weather and circled each other. She turned her body to mirror his, no matter where he walked. If he stepped forward, she stepped back. The lack of action gave his mind space to wander. Brienne’s skin glistened and linen clung to the swells of her body. He tightened his grip on the pommel of his sword, imagining her thighs under his fingers instead, lurking higher and higher until he would find her warm and wet. The throb of his cock was the last straw. _Just fucking do something!_

Impatient and desperate for distraction, Jaime lunged. He always moved first, and she always trapped him under her arms against a wall. _Not a bad way to go._

Once, when she pinned him up against the rocks, he refused to yield. He grew fond of their close proximity: his sword tangled with hers between their heated bodies. Jaime’s heavy breathing washed over her and he swore she pressed harder. In a stalemate, she swarmed him as close as she could get without touching him. Gods, his body begged to touch her, but his only hand struggled to block her strength with his sword. Jaime loosened his grip on the sword until it fell and Brienne pushed forward, colliding into him. Contact. A grunt escaped Jaime’s throat while he smirked. It sent shivers through him, and he craved more… 

But she pulled away, widening the space between them. “I’ll take that as a yield,” was all she said.

Every day, he arrived with the hope that he would beat her. Instead, he walked back more bruised, beaten and aroused than the day before. 

His own body tortured him throughout the week, and one night, he gave into the suffering. With closed eyes and a foreign left hand in a lonely room, Jaime untied his trousers and stroked himself. He closed his eyes and winced— it felt horrible, but the urgency encouraged him to continue. Without internet or magazines, his mind wandered while his left hand enclosed around his cock. His mind pictured Brienne as his hand gripped himself. He shook his head, stopped and moved to his bed. After a pause, he closed his eyes and resumed stroking. Trying to not think of Brienne only made him think of her more. Jolts of pleasure sang through him. The bath. Her image burned into his memory. His eyes clenched tighter, heart pounded harder and hand stroked faster. The dream— her holding him down, riding him until she milked every last drop out of him. Jaime flushed, arched and came hard while he realized: _I want to fuck Brienne of Tarth. Or have her fuck me. Not sure._

_What a wicked game to play  
To make me feel this way  
What a wicked thing to do  
To let me dream of you_

Gods, he was going to the Seven Hells, if he wasn’t already there.


	25. Chapter 25

He fell asleep relieved and awoke conflicted. Drawn and quartered by two different women, they caught Jaime between fantasy and reality. He desired Brienne, but only hurt would come out of it. He would never choose to stay in the past, and she would never break her honor. He needed to return home: to reality, even if he dreaded it. Jaime relinquished his talkative trait when it came to his emotions. He dove into his thoughts more throughout the day, daydreaming bed scenes in the middle of meetings. Impatient for his evening spars with Brienne, Jaime either glazed over or tapped his foot as if anxious time passed faster. Time, however, chose its own pace, and weeks turned into months. Every day, Jaime held his emotions behind tight lips, and he sparred with Brienne almost every evening. She won every match, and the building desire for her, and to win a match, ate him away from the inside out.

Yet, every practice, he arrived to see the same smirking Brienne he adored. She neglected all seductive smiles or ladylike attire, but romanticism nourished her heart more than blood. Strong yet innocent. Stubborn yet earnest. Jaime smiled, living in the present, and picked up his sword to start his favorite and loathed part of his day. As creative as music, sword fighting evoked emotions in Jaime: positive and negative. He hadn’t felt so alive since the last time he played at a concert. 

A harmless warm up ensued, a routine they did every day before sparring. Jaime practiced each strike against Brienne, who blocked it with silent stares. Like a flowing river, his wrist weaved and turned with each strike. They traded roles, and Jaime held out his dull sword to practice blocking against her. All the while, Jaime watched the rising tide behind her. Storms brewed on the horizon, increasing winds and agitating him.

He guarded the middle of his body, high and low. She muttered a single word of praise at his technique as his sword moved closer to block his left side. Jaime smirked, remembering her advice to be ready at all times. She swung her sword forward, and as blades met, instead of blocking her, he allowed her to push forward while he spun around in a twist.

Catching her in a surprise, he rotated to thrust his sword against the left side of her gut. The tip almost reached her side until she swatted at his sword with a hand. _Cheater. You would lose a hand for that._ He allowed the push of his sword, excited and disappointed he came so close to checkmate. By the looks of her open mouth and wide eyes, he ambushed her into a fluster. Sparring started early that day, and Jaime craved more control.

She adapted and her sword came whirling down with one hand, a rare move, and Jaime took advantage of it. He reached up with his golden hand and the metal fingers caressed around her blade. She pulled back and he pushed with her, keeping contact, all with a hint of a smile on his tense lips.

Brienne stepped backwards, caught off guard by his improvised tactics. It took him a while to learn that the more he yielded to her, the better he was. He did not match her strength, but he needed to outsmart her wit if he wanted to win a match. She yanked back harder, Jaime dipped underneath her blade and twisted his golden hand as he pushed. Her sword locked in his metal hand and awkward pressure on her wrist forced her to let go. _Perfect._ Jaime tossed her sword away along with his metal hand, leaving his empty, scarred stump behind.

_Without a sword, you’re practically naked._ Jaime roared and lurched upwards with a thrust of his sword. A hair faster than him, Brienne punched him in the chest as she let out a primal growl. Suffocated, Jaime dropped his sword to reach for the stinging pain. _Shit._ Jaime’s only advantage left when he lost his sword. Heavy winds crashed waves against rocks below them, and seafoam drifted into the air.

He fell to his knees, noticing Brienne hesitate and hover over him with tense brows. _She’s worried._ With gloves off, Jaime dramatized his pain. He crouched down and faked injury, wincing and inhaling in agony as he writhed on the floor. Concerned, Brienne leaned down and muttered something incoherent. After a breath, Jaime shoved his entire body towards her with a wide grasp. He toppled over her, driving her backwards. Jaime tricked her, and based on her glower, she wasn’t fond of it. They wrestled until Jaime mounted her, straddling her face-up and underneath him.

Finally— he pinned her down.

Amid tense breaths, he asked, “Do you yield?”

Brienne redefined stubbornness. Her face wrinkled and nose flared so much that he swore he saw freckles moving across her face. A deepening energy grew within her and she pushed forward, unseating Jaime from her waist. But he was ready for her. They grappled together on cold, wet ground, tossing and striving for dominance while waves continued smashing into the crag. Jaime attempted to grip her with his phantom hand several times, and the third time, she punished him for it by pressing him onto the ground. Using her rough weight, she climbed him, straddled him and pinned him.

“Yield,” she commanded, impatient and provoked. Her hands sought out his arms and pressed them against the stone underneath him.

“You first,” Jaime said, straining his breath. Although clothed, her warmth seeped onto him. Their bleak situation had its silver lining. He adapted with a winded smile, losing all previous respects between them and asked, “Why don’t we both yield?” 

Her face scrunched in confusion. Consumed in battle lust, Jaime ran his teeth along his lower lip and thrust his groin up, grinding against her— just to make his point clearer. Redness crept from her cheeks down to her neck, and she abandoned him within a second, leaving him half hard, dazed and cold without her. More ocean mist sprayed over them after waves crashed again.

He followed and reached out for her. Both his stump and hand snatched her right hand from grabbing her sword. Breathless, Jaime said, “The music’s still playing. Might I have this dance, My Lady?” 

Jaime yanked her body into a new battle. Their sparring turned into an all out fight, with Jaime determined to win. She threw a few punches, to which Jaime replied by pushing and pulling on her arms and shoulders— each attack more likely to leave bruises than the last.

Both exhausted and stubborn, they tumbled and rolled onto the ground until Jaime brought the army of two to their knees. He tackled her, locking her underneath him again as they struggled against each other. Brienne, likely, held her strength back. Jaime wished— hoped she enjoyed it as much as he did. Facing him, she squirmed underneath him, tearing his motivations to pieces. _Come on, come on, it’s just a game. But I intend to win._

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she said. 

_No fun in that._

Her hands shot out and wrestled with him. He either overpowered her or she let him trap her hands between his hand and stump. _Does she want this?_ Their joined arms stretched over her head. Close proximity sank Jaime’s body on top of hers, and he flattened himself to hold her down with every ounce of his weight. Cheek to cheek, Jaime invaded her space, eyes hovering a heart lengths away from hers. Throughout her tense breaths, she glared forward and refused to yield. _Gods, I hate how stubborn you are._ In truth, he loved it.

Their chests heaved for air and collided with each breath. Jaime squeezed her hand with his, earning a heated scowl. Now was his moment. He wanted to captivate her as much as she did him. “You don’t need a sword to make me yield to you,” he said, so close he could feel his own breath off of her skin. She stilled, lessening her resistance. Only her chest moved— in shreds. Jaime closed his eyes, whispering, ”And I don’t need a sword to make you yield to me.”

She inhaled. Her hand squeezed back. An oncoming wave flung itself against the cliff, and a thin trickle of salt water seeped below their entangled hands.

“Say it,” he whispered, wanting her to yield. 

She said nothing. She would not.

Jaime wanted— needed to win. Actions persuaded more than words. Jaime leaned closer, grazing the tip of his nose against her cheek. She felt hot to the touch.

_Is it safe now?  
Will your arms be open?  
I just have to kiss you  
Try and stop me_

She stopped him. Before his lips found hers, she thrust her knee up and between his legs, crushing him.

In immediate pain, Jaime doubled over and let go of her. She didn’t stop there. As he suffered on the floor, she stood and placed her booted foot over his cock, still half hard and twisting in agony. 

“I— Gods, Brienne!”

She pressed weight onto him, compressing with punishment for a few seconds until Jaime said, “I yield!”

Brienne withdrew, wiping her face with her hands in the windy air as she walked towards the edge of the small crag.

Infuriated, Jaime winced and threatened, “I could throw you in prison!”

“You’re not throwing me anywhere, Jaime,” she said, unamused.

Ignoring her drop of the word “ser”, he said, “We’ll see about that.” He grunted in pain as he struggled to stand. The agony lingered and would stay for an hour or more. Brienne, no where close to help him, fixated by storms above the sea. He should have known such a romantic heart needed more tenderness, but it wasn’t natural to him. Winning some spar was more for him than her, and even though he yielded, Brienne acted like she lost. He knew if he tried a stunt like that again, he’d walk back to the castle a eunuch.

“Tarth water looks so different than this,” Brienne said, and Jaime strained to hear her. He hobbled over and sat on the edge of the crag, facing the sea. Brienne smiled and continued, “Lakes, waterfalls, mountains, vales—” A pause. Brienne scowled and looked at Jaime. “When does that all change?”

Jaime winced and gazed at the waves. “I don’t remember the year, but I don’t think it’s anytime soon.” When Brienne failed to respond, Jaime glanced over to see her glowering at the ocean. He sighed, averted his eyes away and said, “May we both return home someday.” Each enraged wave withdrew farther and farther, extending out into an ocean of unrest. 

The next morning, at breakfast, pain _still_ lingered. He tried to distract his mind by sharing company with Sansa: the wife that felt more like an intern. Seven Hells, Brienne felt more like a wife than Sansa. Their usual small talk ensued, until Sansa leaned closer to Jaime to say, “Be careful.”

“With what?”

“Lady Brienne.”

Jaime frowned, squinted and cleared his throat. His expression begged Sansa to explain.

“They call her the Kingslayer’s whore.”

Jaime’s mouth fell open for a moment, before he leaned forward to ask, “Who? Where? How many?”

“Lannisport. As far as King’s Landing,” Sansa whispered. Young in years, Sansa knew enough to keep her voice down. 

“Who told you this?” 

Sansa straightened her back and turned bashful, averting her focus away from him. “I’m sorry. I can’t— I don’t—”

Jaime stared ahead, whispering, “She’s a guest, nothing more.”

As if it didn’t bother Sansa, she went about her regular routine and failed to bring it up again. Jaime stopped eating and pondered the implications. Rumors followed him no matter where he went. This world was no different. _You’re not a whore and I’m not a kingslayer._


	26. Chapter 26

“You said you wanted to see me, Ser Jaime,” Brienne said.

“Yes, come in,” Jaime said. He stood alone, in what could best be described as an office. Dark wood rested in filtered sunlight. No computer, phone or electricity. Just books, a desk and tons of paperwork that he divided up for Kevan Lannister to take over during his “short” absence from Casterly Rock. Little did Kevan know, Jaime would be leaving for good. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he would miss Casterly Rock. He grew to appreciate its singular stone architecture and kind people.

Brienne stepped in and brought color in with her, despite her dreary clothing. Vivid scenes turned into dull shades whenever she left him, and she possessed such a power over him that he felt his heart suffocate whenever separated. Jaime avoided looking at her. It hurt to share a room alone with her, but it hurt more to reveal the rumor spread about them. 

Brienne picked up on his usual silence and asked, “Is there something I—” she paused, not knowing how to speak. She floundered like dying fish. 

Jaime winced, bothered by her. 

_Give me an hour  
and I’ll give you your dreams_

With so much to discuss, he wanted to go over the worst news last. “We’re leaving early, in case we meet bad weather. I want you to know and agree to my plan. For Sansa’s protection,” Jaime said.

Relieved and eager to learn, Brienne relaxed her shoulders and waited for him to explain. Using a calm voice, Jaime disclosed each detail. The three of them would sneak away during Joffrey’s bedding ceremony. He recommended Brienne leave at the pie cutting to prep the horses. If it came down to Sansa resisting, they’d take her anyway. Jaime suggested Brienne take her to Northern families and hope to find a supporting house. Jaime had been researching the Night’s Watch during his time at Casterly Rock, and while they disallowed women, a refugee family member might be an exception. 

“You’re coming with us?” Brienne asked, after he finished explaining. Her voice cracked, but her face remained impartial and strong. Her harsh eyes, however, studied Jaime.

Jaime tapped the side of his wooden desk. His jaw tilted and twisted until he couldn’t hide the truth anymore. “No,” he said, “The Isle of Faces is on the way to the North. We’ll say goodbye there.”

Brienne averted her eyes and nodded once. She walked to the window with her back towards Jaime.

Jaime’s throat tightened, and he couldn’t stop talking. “I _could_ stay, here— in this time,” Jaime said, watching her reaction. She remained still, staring ahead into the Stone Garden’s tree canopies. He wanted her eyes on him.

“Everything you want is there, why stay?” Brienne asked, her gaze outside, unwavering.

Jaime smirked at her biting his bait. “My dead hand is here, somewhere. Can’t leave without that.” When she didn’t laugh or respond, he continued, “I swore an oath to someone and—” his voice turned quiet and serious, “I am tempted to keep it.” Although he swore several oaths, he only thought of the marriage to Brienne. Their annulled marriage. _It feels real._

Brienne glanced over her shoulder and said, “Your vows to Lady Catelyn and marriage vows to Sansa are one in the same.” Her voice lacked emotion, only harboring dry duty. Jaime focused on her words, and he noticed that she mistook him referencing Sansa, when he, in fact, meant his oath to Brienne. All of it was about her, not Sansa. 

Jaime shook his head, even though Brienne failed to see it. “It’s a vow I haven’t yet completed,” Jaime said, “and to be honest, I didn’t mean it when I made it. Now— I want to be her valiant knight, even if I’m more of a squire.” He took his time stepping towards Brienne. She looked back, smirking for a split second before she broke eye contact and resumed her gaze outside. Brienne tensed, feeling uncomfortable, and Jaime overlooked why. 

“I envy her, really,” Jaime continued, still talking about Brienne, “More of a knight than I could be. Innocent, in a refreshing way. And stubborn to a fault. So stubborn she won’t admit her feelings.” Jaime fixed his eyes on her. The side of Brienne’s face turned into an awkward smile. Jaime stopped behind her. He lengthened his posture, dancing his eyes across the back of her neck and thin blonde hair. His eyes traveled down the subtle curve of her back. _Answer me, I’ll be damned if this is unrequited._ A valiant knight would reach around her and pull her into a kiss, but Jaime thought he already failed before he started. His hand twitched and fidgeted within itself. Nerves dominated him. He was a coward. An old, crippled coward. He looked down and away from her. After a deep sigh, Jaime said, “If she’d ask me to stay, I’d consider it.” _If there’s one reason to stay, it’d be you._

“Ask her,” Brienne said.

Maybe he was wrong, and maybe she didn’t understand. Maybe his feelings were not reciprocated and she felt he belonged in a different time. He blinked as Brienne turned around to face him. His body remained still, yet she remained cornered between him and the window. “I am,” he said.

Their eyes met, and her face said a thousand more words than either of them could conjure up. Her upper lip, big as it was, quivered. She wrestled within herself and Jaime held his breath. He couldn’t have misinterpreted her— the way she ogled towards him or the fact she gifted him small, faint smiles. Except, now, Brienne wasn’t smiling. Her face morphed into a grieving frown— somber, with a subtle flash of wistfulness that Jaime wished he could seize for himself. She was so close— so close to saying yes— Jaime wanted to burst her into bloom. She broke out of her daze, bowed in the little space between them... and walked away. 

_Stubborn, speechless woman._

He exhaled, thinking of her loyalty to Catelyn Stark. The woman rested in a grave, and still, she triumphed over all else. His mood soured. “One more thing. You do not want to hear this but I want you to hear it from me first. There is a— name— traveling about you.” He turned to find Brienne halfway to the door, as if she were to flee at any moment.

“Nothing I haven’t heard before,” she said, despondent and calm.

“Kingslayer’s whore.”

Brienne flinched. She kept her focus far from Jaime.

Jaime clenched his fist together, still spiteful over her honor. _Will you run away, hide and break your oath to protect Sansa?_ Jaime squinted in her direction, unable to read her damned thoughts. _Or am worthless to you?_ A handless, old drug addict. He walked over to his desk, growing more heavy and angry with every step. “I suppose this marks the end to our sparring,” he said. _Both types._ She wasn’t his first crush in the world, if he could get over one, he could overcome them all. Jaime continued, “I enjoyed it, while it lasted, though I’m afraid you’ve taught me more than I taught you.” _You’ve learned nothing from me._ His chair creaked upon contact and Jaime’s muscles ached, still sore from yesterday’s fight— lustful thing. “I’ve already picked your horse for you. A bay mare as unsightly as you for the travels to King’s Landing and after. Leave, we’re done here.” 

She stood there— stupid as a girl trying to play a guitar with her mouth. 

“Are you ever going to go?” he asked, antagonizing the source of his problems.

She blinked, bowed and went.

Jaime said his goodbyes to everyone else before his party prepared to set off for King Joffrey’s wedding to Margaery Tyrell. While Jaime awaited on his gray stallion, he closed his eyes and imagined home. The countdown began. In a few short weeks, and he’d be home… enjoying a hot shower, eating fried rice take out and watching a ball game. Maybe just a taste of opio— no. He couldn’t submit to those demons. He’d been sober for so long. He’d find a new Brienne, someone to anchor him and keep him honest.

At the city gates, Sansa invited Jaime to ride with her, although he declined with polite smiles. He had no interest in bothering her with his constant barrage of words. Squires, however, Jaime enjoyed pestering. 

One squire asked Jaime, “Have you ever knighted anyone?”

 _No one’s ever knighted me, small fry._ Jaime managed a half smile and sneered at the young boy. “Why? You expect me to knight you? You want to be a knight, you have to prove it.”

“Not just a knight. A true knight.”

Jaime rolled his eyes while the other squires snickered. This boy smirked and lifted his chin, ignoring everyone’s jests.

“And that is…?” Jaime asked, folding his left hand over his metal hand around his reins.

“Brave and just,” the squire said. 

Bored already at his cheesy words, Jaime gazed around at the mass of people outside the gates. 

The boy continued, “Defend the young, innocent, women. Godly, cleanly.” 

Jaime’s eyes found armored Brienne on her horse, riding a slow walk towards him. 

“Courteous in battle,” the squire finished. 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, boy,” Jaime said, throwing visual daggers at Brienne as she came closer to them. She stared ahead, avoiding him. Jaime continued, “Not all of us can be knights, and even fewer are true knights.”

Brienne entered earshot and gathered her mare up against the group of squires and Jaime. He felt invisible with his armor on, but naked and vulnerable with Brienne so close and ostrasizing. _She must hate me. The world thinks I deserve it._ Even if she did, he couldn’t muster the courage to match her hate. 

“Pretty horse,” a squire said to Brienne.

Jaime watched as Brienne squinted for a moment, analyzing the squire’s words. She nodded as a thank you. _That’s the most you’ll ever get out of her._ Jaime frowned at her, not hiding his surveying eyes. He worked hard for every smile and she rarely paid. She sat on the horse he saved for her, a beautiful bay mare— Jaime made sure of that. He picked Lannisport’s most elegant and gorgeous horse.

The squire quieted and Jaime’s eyes lingered in midthought, until Brienne’s eyes lifted up to meet his. Their horses both shifted underneath them, impatient and ready for the travels. Brienne stared, for a moment, and offered Jaime her small smile. His heart smiled back.


	27. Chapter 27

Jaime walked into King’s Landing a king. With the exception of chilled autumn air, travels finished well. Sansa reminded him “winter is coming” and he reminded her that he, indeed, knew the order of seasons. Jaime’s heart ached speaking to Sansa more than Brienne, who kept her distance throughout their journey. Her new nickname changed their relationship and not for the better. The phrase never entered his ears again, but neither of them wanted to encourage it. _Who started that nickname?_

Time continued, as always. He had been in the past for an entire year. 53 weeks, to be exact, and 53 more weeks clean. Jaime counted. He couldn’t wait to travel home and he looked forward to King Joffrey’s wedding. Jaime’s escort arrived early enough to visit Joffrey’s pre-wedding activities. Sansa’s return pleased King Joffrey, and he resumed his mockery. Jaime opened his mouth to defend her several times, but Sansa silenced him with small touches on his arm. _How in Seven Hells am I supposed to be a knight if people don’t want to listen to me?_ Jaime held his tongue.

More stressful than stealing away his legal wife, Jaime sighed through every reunion with a family member. His father asked if Sansa was with child yet. Jaime opened his mouth to lie and say he consummated the marriage— he hadn’t, and he couldn’t lie. His father would see through it. Jaime suffered through a lecture and ensured his father he would have an heir. Jaime wasn’t in the mood for arguing. He saved that for Cersei.

Cersei tried several tactics, all passive aggressive. She acted sweet, visiting his chambers the first night he arrived. When he declined her seeking hands, she turned vile. He managed to push her out of his room when she called him an angry cripple. She threatened to visit him every night until he gave into her. Jaime believed her and went to share his chambers with Sansa as protection. He preferred the discomforts of a loveseat over his sister’s cold hands.

On the way out of Sansa’s room, a drunk man bowed and walked out. _An affair? Not possible._ Upon entering, Sansa avoided all eye contact and ignored him. He reminded her of the shy and bashful maiden he met months ago. Nothing added up. 

“You know,” Jaime said as he plopped on a cushioned couch, “you need to get better at lying.”

Sansa never replied.

It didn’t matter to him what she did in her life. He just wanted— needed to get her safe so he could go home. He was so close, he could almost taste the fresh air of Ashlanding. He could imagine his home in Casterland. And he could picture Tarth’s ruin. Jaime winced. He hoped Brienne handled King’s Landing well enough, but he knew she despised politics more than him. His brother, however, seemed to have hit his tolerance for the once beloved subject.

“I don’t care where you’ve been, but I’m glad you’re back here,” Tyrion said during a quiet moment at breakfast the next morning.

“I wish I could stay longer,” Jaime said, forcing a small smile. In a way, he meant it.

“Careful what you wish for.”

Jaime let out a single laugh, gazing at Tyrion with a smirk that only brothers shared. “Can I wish for another hand?” Jaime asked, and Tyrion smiled wider.

Wedding bells vibrated through Jaime’s body and mind when he stood in the same sept he married Sansa. Horrible memories followed. Stress mounted into his tightening muscles as he stepped into place, next to Prince Tommen and Sansa. Stone faced, Cersei stood between Tommen and Tywin. Jaime’s father’s stoic eyes never left Joffrey at the altar. 

As future Queen Margaery walked in graceful steps down the aisle with her father, Jaime glanced back to see Tyrion, who struggled to see anything behind their father’s shadow. All of the Lannisters, except Daven in armor and white cloak, wore some variation of house colors. Cersei dressed in elegant crimson underlined in deep gold. Lannister males wore variations of maroon, with Tommen, still a boy, displaying luxurious fabrics. Pretension surrounded Jaime no matter the time. He inhaled a slow breath while the same septon who married him and Sansa started the ceremony. 

_Thank the Gods that was quick._

King Joffrey spun around and called out to his people, scanning the crowd with a mad look like he conquered the world. “With this kiss, I pledge my love,” Joffrey said, turning towards Margaery— spitting image of a young, beautiful queen.

Jaime averted his eyes away to Brienne, in the bride’s crowd. She stared forward at the kissing couple until claps started, glanced over at Jaime and away. _We forgot to do this part, didn’t we?_ Jaime smirked and joined in applause. No one meant it, but they all praised the King anyway.

“We have a new Queen,” Sansa whispered to Jaime.

_Not for long. I’ll get you out of here._

Jaime wished he could record the extravagant mazes of the reception. No one in modern times would believe him without proof. This reception _outdid_ any and all parties he ever attended. Not a detail was forgotten, and every surface adorned a Tyrell rose, Baratheon stag or Lannister lion. However, not a single drop of Baratheon black bled through— only gold and crimson. Jaime struggled to keep his mouth closed while servants led them to their table. As he sat, Sansa’s joyless face reminded him of King’s Landing false allure— nothing ever appeared as it seemed.

Music played, distracting Jaime from everything else, including escape. Jaime loved conversation, but in a world with fewer songs, Jaime engrossed himself in music’s creative art. Everyone else ignored the artists, except Margaery. King Joffrey yawned and rested his head on his palm, Tommen joked with Tyrion, Cersei smiled with their father and Sansa talked with an older woman.

Jugglers and the like did not entertain Jaime, so when they took the stage, he turned to his brother, who he would soon miss. Their conversation turned serious when Tyrion mentioned Brienne of Tarth.

“Is it true?” Tyrion asked, serious but quiet.

“That’s she’s a whore, let alone mine? No. A maiden— as far as I know.” Jaime managed a smile, but nausea ate at him. Her status never mattered to him.

Tyrion said, “I know. Not your variety.”

Jaime tilted his head to the side, wondering what his brother meant. Jaime sighed as the meaning unfolded itself to him. _I know exactly what you mean._ “If you mean—”

“She skipped me and went straight to Daven,” Tyrion said, interrupting him.

“How much wine have you had?” Jaime asked.

“Not nearly enough. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is who started such a rumor. I have yet to ask Varys.”

“Varys?”

Tyrion pointed out a bald man sitting across the stage.

“Is that a mermaid?” Jaime asked, trying to be funny.

His brother, as usual, surpassed him. “A spider. More limbs than you. One less cock.”

Jaime choked on his apple pastry. 

Tyrion leaned closer to Jaime and said, “He exemplifies one of the best spies in Westeros. Vast webs of information.”

“Who’s the second best spy?” Jaime asked.

Tyrion let out a long sigh and said, “Littlefinger.”

Jaime raised his eyebrows and reclined into his chair. _What a horrible name._

As Tyrion drank more, Jaime’s hand twitched and begged him to partake with a glass of wine. _No._ He needed to remain clean _and_ sober. Jaime scooted his chair and excused himself to walk around. Brienne remained his goal for clarity, comfort and reassurance. Near a large banner, her awkward, tall posture contrasted with long crimson curtains behind her. She dressed in blue— a beautiful color on her. 

Jaime stepped over, tempted to mock her for standing alone and not enjoying herself. She held her tight hands behind her back and rocked on slow feet. Her posture straightened as Jaime approached her. Jaime stopped beside her and said, “Better reception than ours.”

“Save it for later,” Brienne replied, unamused. She was in no mood for his quips. Her breathing quickened.

Jaime wet his lips. Nerves swallowed him and all he could think to do was talk. “Cold feet? Honorable true Brienne of Tarth kidnaps Lord and Lady Lannister. Has a ring to it. Not as much as Kingslayer, I’m afraid. My father will hunt after us. Cersei won’t stop until she gets in my trousers. Joffrey— King Joffrey will take it as a personal spite. He’ll kill us all. He has already asked we stay in King’s Landing for Gods know what. You can’t deny a king, Lady Brienne, not like you’ve denied me.”

“Deny you?” Brienne glared at him 

Jaime turned his body towards her, refusing to hide his irritation with the woman. “Should I remind you? You’ve been denying me since the beginning,” Jaime said, matching her scowl.

Brienne scoffed as her face twitched in anger. “I wear your armor, your sword— ”

“I’ve said before—” he said, annoyed by her list. “I don’t care what you wear.” _I care why your heart beats, and I want it beating for me._

“I’ve trained you. Protected you— What have I denied?” 

_How do you do it  
You got me losing every breath  
What did you give me  
To make my heart beat out my chest?_

Jaime grimaced and shook his head before saying, “If you don’t understand by now, you’re younger than I thought.”

“What makes you think I don’t understand?” she asked, leaning forward to seek out his eyes and attention. His heart healed and died in simultaneous beats. Brienne continued, “What I understand is that you’re leaving.”

“What reason do I have to stay? Tell me.” _Show me._ Deep down, he knew she never would. Brienne judged, cursed and distrusted Jaime like everyone else. He was a drug addict— a murderer— a Kingslayer. Under his breath, Jaime said, “There’s no reason for a Kingslayer to stay.”

“You’re _not_ a Kingslayer.” 

“Kingslayer with his whore,” Jaime said without thinking. She stormed away, leaving him alone. His pressed lips implored him to ask her back to him, but words never left his strained throat. Under the sun’s unexpected warmth, Jaime slouched his shoulders and he recalled her words. _I’m not a Kingslayer in her eyes._ With eyes closed, he sighed. Those words meant everything to him. _Just another mistake._

Jaime returned to his seat as Brienne approached King Joffrey. She forced a meek smile, bowed and retreated. Jaime’s eyes followed her as she left, until Cersei rose and walked after Brienne. His sister dwarfed in comparison, and Jaime wished he could hear what they said. He could only see Brienne’s freckled face, smiling. The grin vanished into a blush, followed by widening eyes and flaring nostrils. Jaime frowned. He forgot all previous grievances when Jaime realized his sister sank her venom into Brienne. 

Jaime met eyes with Cersei’s victim, noting her tight lips and wet eyes. Stubborn as ever, Brienne turned and walked away. His stomach lurched as Cersei looked back at him with an innocent, yet knowing, smile. _She started that rumor._

“Too much amusement!” King Joffrey said, gathering everyone’s attention. Cersei and Tywin shuffled themselves back to their seats. Jaime’s mouth ran dry.

A large contraption wheeled out. Once opened, five little people dressed in costumes rolled out. Each person represented one of the five kings— a war not yet won. The play began and Joffrey’s manic laughter assaulted Jaime’s ears. Tommen, Cersei and Daven smiled, while silent Tyrion and Sansa watched. Each entertainer jousted, and one knocked the wolf head off of Robb Stark. White as Dornish sand, Sansa sat still, and Jaime reached over to hold clasp her hand. She didn’t move and continued to watch— fuming. Jaime closed his eyes. He had enough of his horrid, incestuous family and this world. He wanted to go home so, so, so badly.

After the play, Joffrey’s laughter pierced through the crowd’s applause, and he proceeded to pick on Tyrion. Jaime wondered why such a dull boy wanted to duel with Tyrion— the wisest man Jaime knew. Joffrey wanted to control, dominate and objectify Jaime's brother. Tyrion outmaneuvered Joffrey like a sport, disguising his comments as both insulting, empowering and amusing to the crowds that listened. It only angered Joffrey more.

A breeze floated through tense air. The crowd quieted when Joffrey walked over and poured his wine over his uncle’s head. Jaime heard his own pounding pulse until Margaery called Joffrey back to her. Pressure only left for a moment, because Joffrey turned to Tyrion and said, “Uncle, you can be my cupbearer. Seeing as you're too cowardly to fight.”

“Your Grace does me a great honor,” Tyrion said.

“It’s not meant as an honor.”

Tyrion took his time standing, walked over, reached for the cup and offered it to Joffrey. 

The King smirked and dropped the cup. Clanks echoed across the stage. King Joffrey’s foot kicked the cup under a table. “Bring me my goblet,” Joffrey said.

Sansa reached down, picked it up and handed it to him. Before Tyrion could offer it to King Joffrey again, the King asked, “What good is an empty cup? Fill it.”

Tyrion filled it, twitching muscles wrought all over his face. Jaime reminded himself to breathe.

“Kneel,” Joffrey ordered. 

Tyrion stared and refused. 

Joffrey repeated, “Kneel before your King.”

Tyrion stood still.

More desperate, and after adjusting his stance, Joffrey demanded, “I said… kneel!”

“Look, the pie!” Margaery said, and the crowd erupted in applause.

Joffrey stewed and snatched the goblet before they walked their separate ways. On cue, the largest pigeon pie arrived front and center. Joffrey pulled out his Lannister sword and sliced through the air, lurching and crunching down through the pie as doves rushed to escape and fly into the air amid claps and cheers. Jaime let out a deep breath and tried to calm himself down. Servants surrounded the pigeon pie and cut into it. _Think of how much poop is in that thing._

Sansa leaned over and asked, “Can we leave now?”

Jaime glanced over, happy for her suggestion. It wasn’t part of the original plan, but Jaime knew how to roll with the punches. Brienne, hopefully, had already left and they wouldn’t be too far behind, but far enough to not raise suspicion. Jaime scooted his chair and stood along with Sansa as King Joffrey shouted, “Uncle!”

Jaime froze. Jaime’s eyes took their time to scanning over to the King, but Joffrey’s eyes bore into Tyrion— not Jaime. 

Joffrey asked, “Where are you going? You’re my cupbearer, remember?”

“I thought I might change out of these wet clothes, Your Grace,” Tyrion said.

“No, no, no, no, you’re perfect the way you are. Serve me my wine.”

Afraid to be caught in his own lie, Jaime stood still. He wanted no attention on himself, and watched in pain as Tyrion rounded the table to serve his nephew again.

“Well, hurry up, this pie is dry!”

Tyrion handed the boy his cup and stepped back as Joffrey washed the pie down with eager gulps. “Mm, good— Needs washing down.”

“If it please—” Tyrion said, wanting to leave. 

_I should take him with me._

“No.” Joffrey coughed. “No, you’ll wait here and—” His coughs continued. “And—”

Frowning, Tyrion stepped forward and asked, “Your Grace?”

Joffrey struggled for air as he muttered, “There’s something—”

Margaery panicked and shouted, “He’s choking!”

“Help the poor boy!” another woman said.

The breeze continued washing in, and Jaime hardly felt it, watching as Cersei and Daven rushed to Joffrey’s side. The King clutched at his neck while he gasped for air, unable to breathe. Poisoned. Jaime felt himself struggling for air as it happened. As a last effort, Joffrey painted a pathway with a grasp of his fingers, towards Tyrion, who picked up his dropped goblet.

Cersei rocked and cradled her dead son. Enough hate radiated off of her to fuel the world for centuries.

“He did this,” Cersei said, dripping in wrath. “He poisoned my son. Your King!”

_No, no, no._ Jaime refused to believe it. Paralyzed, Jaime stood still while guards swarmed his little brother. 

Brienne was gone. Sansa was gone. 

His twin sister repeated her words, each filled with more vengeance than the last, “Take him. Take him! _Take him!_ ” Cersei’s delicate hair floated in the breeze, lifting and falling against her back. Wind roared over the crowd, taking Jaime’s words and Joffrey’s soul with it.


	28. Chapter 28

Jaime stayed. King’s Landing swallowed and refused to retch him up, along with the rest of the city. On high alert, Kingsguard and soldiers searched everywhere for Sansa, who disappeared during the wedding. Brienne never returned. Whispers of Sansa’s guilt danced throughout the city, but Jaime knew she couldn’t have orchestrated such a thing. Neither could Tyrion, now trapped in a cell.

Jaime couldn’t leave his brother. If Jaime left, all of Westeros would search for him as a suspect. Fear for his brother’s life multiplied when Jaime spoke with Cersei at Joffrey’s funeral. Over her son’s embalmed and herbed body, Cersei claimed Tyrion threatened to kill Joffrey. In her mind, Tyrion was guilty. 

Before Jaime tried to persuade his sister, she asked, “Kill Tyrion… I want him dead. Please, Jaime. You have to.”

Jaime blinked with his mouth agape. She scowled, staring down at her dead son while Jaime remembered Cersei from his childhood. She had asked him the same thing. Their mother died shortly after giving birth to Tyrion— something Cersei always resented. Both Cerseis. As children, Jaime refused to kill their baby brother and Cersei stood over his crib, assaulting and choking him until their nanny rushed in to ask why Tyrion screamed. He was only a baby. An innocent baby. _How could I forget that?_ No matter how hard Jaime tried to run from his family, he couldn’t. Jaime never answered Cersei. Her cousin lover entered the sept and Jaime left, leaving Cersei in tears— from either his own departure or her son’s death. Jaime wanted nothing to do with any other Lannister but Tyrion. Only Tyrion mattered.

Jaime tried seeing his brother, but guards prevented him. Days pressed on and a council formed. Tyrion rotted away with no chance for visitors while Tommen, just a boy, took Joffrey’s place as King of the Seven Kingdoms. Cersei ordered many guards to protect her last son. After Joffrey’s week long funeral, King’s Landing prepared for Tommen’s quiet, but magnificent, coronation. It was beautiful, but mid-applause, Jaime glanced around to see no friend in sight. No Tyrion. No Sansa. No Brienne. Solitude ate him, and he felt as much of a prisoner as Tyrion.

As the council gathered evidence, Cersei and Tywin prepared Tommen’s marriage to Joffrey’s widow. Tommen wasn’t even a teenager, but alliances were more important than anyone’s consciousness. Nothing new to Jaime.

Weeks passed like seconds on a stopwatch. Tyrion’s trial stalled, and Jaime promised himself to stay and to support his brother— even if their father, sister and cousins did just the opposite. Guilt would kill Jaime faster than his own family if he abandoned King’s Landing. 

Cersei visited his bed chambers more often than he could count on two hands, even if he only had one. He trimmed his hair above his brows and grew out his beard into a thick stubble when Cersei said she preferred his hair long and face clean shaven. Cersei obsessed over him. Her manipulations reached a new level whenever he found prostitutes naked in his bed, wanting sex or information. Thank the Gods he wasn’t stupid enough to fall for it. He threw all women out, sheets as temporary clothes, and told them to leave him alone. As time went on, through Cersei’s manipulations and control, he recognized how similar Cersei was to _her_ , and how much better his life would be without either of them.

Still, family mattered to Jaime and Tywin seized his weakness. Tywin cornered Jaime on multiple occasions, blaming Sansa for partnering with Tyrion. His father almost lost his shit when Varys told him he received word that Sansa annulled her marriage to Jaime at an unknown location. _I married the Queen, but I won’t wear the crown._ Tywin insisted Jaime return to the Rock, find Sansa or marry a new wife. Jaime knew better and refused all three.

Jaime spent most of his time helping Tommen or his own squires practice fighting. His young nephew became an unofficial squire and Jaime enjoyed teaching Brienne’s techniques to the budding boy. Tommen’s clumsy body danced through sword routines and Jaime noted that he didn’t have a single fighting bone in his body. Due to Tommen’s kind nature, Jaime asked for favors and signatures from Tommen, and the boy smiled at the chance to help his uncle. In a royal letter, Tommen wrote a royal mission for Brienne of Tarth. With that letter, Jaime sent Tyrion’s old squire, a boy named Podrick, with it and some coin to find Brienne— wherever she was. He needed to help her find Sansa or Arya, and help her protect them.

In random bursts, he thought of Brienne, even during morning religious services. He didn’t pray every morning, he meditated and thought of Brienne. He hoped for her safety and success in finding the Stark girls— almost a prayer. Almost. _Brienne, where are you? Have you found her?_ He mulled over her words at Joffrey's wedding. Imagined her smiles, her glares... every night— analyzing them from different angles. He obsessed over his mistakes.

_It came back to haunt me  
and I realized  
That you were an island   
and I passed you by_

Months passed. When Tyrion’s trial finally started, Jaime watched in horror. He waited so long for such a damning event. Evidence upon evidence piled up against Tyrion: from stolen potions to witness testimony. It looked so damning, even Jaime once considered Tyrion’s guilt. During an intermission, Jaime rushed to see his father. He stormed into Tywin's room while he enjoyed a private lunch and glass of wine. Jaime refused to hide his disgust. Tywin chewed a thick cut of ham, noticed Jaime and considered him with tilted head.

Jaime swallowed and preferred to let his thoughts stumble out of him. He said, “You’ve condemned your own son to death."

Tywin ignored him and cut into a large, roasted onion. “I’ve condemned no one. Trial is not over.”

Jaime shook his head. “It’s not a trial. Cersei has manipulated everything and you know it.”

“I know nothing of the sort. He killed his king,” Tywin said.

After a pause, Jaime scowled and said, “Have you heard my name?”

Tywin glanced up and glowered.

Jaime let out a tense, long breath. If he needed to beg for Tyrion’s life, he would do it. _Without me here, without Tyrion, there is no future for our house._ Jaime forced a small smile and said, “Once, you said family is what lives on. All that lives on. You told me about a dynasty that could last a thousand years.”

Tywin cleared his throat and broadened his shoulders. “What happens to my dynasty if I spare the life of my grandsons killer?”

“It survives. Through me,” Jaime said. _I can’t believe I’m doing this._ “I will marry again. If you let Tyrion live.”

“Done.”

Jaime neglected to hide his shock as his eyes and mouth fell open. His father meant it. Jaime narrowed his eyebrows and closed his mouth— wondering if he made a mistake making a deal with his father.

Tywin set down his utensils, licked gravy off his lips and released a subtle smirk. “When the testimony is concluded and the guilty verdict rendered, Tyrion will be given the chance to speak. He’ll plead for mercy. I’ll allow him to join the Night’s Watch. Three days time, he’ll depart to Castle Black and live out his days at the Wall. You will marry immediately. You’ll resume your rightful place at Casterly Rock. Father children named Lannister. And you’ll never turn your back on your family again.”

Jaime’s heart pounded in his chest. He looked his father in the eyes and said, “You have my word.”

“And you have mine.”

Bells rang, signaling the break’s end. Jaime turned and sought out Tyrion, who hunched over inside his stand. His eyes, still hot with anger, lifted up with a glimmer of hope when Jaime bowed over to greet him. Tyrion clenched his jaw and said, “Not going well is it?”

Jaime sighed and leaned closer. “You’re going to be found guilty.”

“Oh, you think so?”

“And when you are, you need to plead for mercy and ask to be sent to the Wall. Father’s agreed to it.” Jaime paused to see Tyrion’s eyes widen, followed by a stern frown. Jaime continued, “He’ll spare your life and send you to the Night’s Watch. You’ll live a long life there.”

Tyrion shook his head. “Long life? I’ll be dead the moment I arrive.”

Jaime blinked and leaned back, noticing Cersei, Oberyn and Tywin take their seats. Eyes started assaulting him, and Jaime stepped back and away from Tyrion. They stared at one another while Jaime took his seat again— hoping— praying Tyrion pleaded mercy. Like a slap in the face, Tyrion’s mess of a trial ruined all hope. Tyrion never pleaded mercy and instead cursed and critiqued every person. He demanded a trial by combat. Jaime’s mouth and heart dropped. Tyrion would never make it to the Night’s Watch. He wouldn’t survive another week.

In Tyrion’s cell, after his trial, the two brothers leaned against clammy, hopeless dark walls. Tyrion’s cell smelled worse than Jaime’s original cell in Riverrun— almost a year and a half ago. Jaime inhaled damp, musty air and scents of wet straw, piss and shit. 

“Don’t give up on me just yet. I survived one trial by combat even though you weren’t there to save me,” Tyrion said, sending a hopeful look to Jaime.

_He can’t be serious._ Jaime let out a sigh, shook his head and said, “I can’t save you this time either. I— can’t fight.” _I’ve never been able to fight._

Tyrion waddled over with a charming, desperate smile. “Where’s your sense of adventure? Even if you lose, imagine the look on father’s face when you fall. Our family name snuffed out with a single swing of the sword.”

“It is tempting,” Jaime said as they shared solemn grins together.

Jaime assumed the worst, and he grieved for a brother he hadn’t even lost yet. Jaime left Tyrion's cell without hope, and in desperation, he tried to hide it with a forced smile. 

The following day, a slight glimmer of hope returned when Oberyn elected to be Tyrion’s champion and the new trial date was set. Jaime visited Tyrion the morning of the fight. He wouldn’t normally carry wine, but Tyrion was an exception. He sneaked the drink in and handed over to Tyrion without a word. The two of them sat across from each other, sharing deep, shaking breaths.

Tyrion gulped wine, swallowed and asked, “How much longer?” 

“Soon,” Jaime said, sounding neither hopeful or distressed. His heart, however, raced like he needed a pill. His ears dreaded sounds of bells.

Tyrion felt the need to keep talking and said, “Do you think Oberyn has a chance?”

“I’ve never seen him fight,” Jaime said, shrugging.

Tyrion breathing’s shook. “He’s going to die. I’m going to die.”

“Oberyn believes in himself,” Jaime said, hoping to relieve his brother of his anxiety.

“That’s putting it mildly.”

A silence crept in between them, and neither of them liked it. Tyrion was about to die, they both knew it.

“Do you remember Orson Lannsiter?” Tyrion asked.

_No._ Jaime forced a smile and said, “Uh— of course.”

“No, you don’t,” Tyrion said.

Jaime’s eyes flashed to his brother, who stared back. _Not now._ He shifted in his seat and clenched his rubbed the tip of his thumb against his index finger. Jaime was about to plead for a different subject or distraction. 

Tyrion beat him to it. “I saw your body.”

Stunned, Jaime sat still.

Tyrion continued, “I was just ten... visiting his captive brother in a cell, like you visiting me now. And I found you dead. Lying on the ground. Blood bathing you. Arrow in your back. Throat slit. I went to get help, and by the time I came back, your cell was in flames. Burned beyond recognizability. Father didn’t believe I saw you. Cersei cried for weeks, and I cried for years. You don’t know Orson Lannister, you don’t know how to fight, you don’t know the Reins of Castamere, you don’t know Night’s Watch is a death sentence, and you don’t fuck Cersei. You’re not Jaime.”

Frozen by the truth and gruesome details of a death that felt like his, Jaime answered, “I— I am… Jaime— just...” he paused, wincing from torment, “from another time.”

Tyrion tilted his head to the side without smile or grimace. “Explain.” 

Jaime struggled to breathe in air and stared at the ceiling of the cell while he said, “I can’t even explain it to myself. I— was sent here, through a weirwood tree. I’ve been trying to get back for… over a year now.”

“Get back where?” Tyrion’s serious responses gave Jaime hope that Tyrion believed him.

“Home,” Jaime said with closed eyes, imagining it. Mobile phones. Cars. Medicine. Opioids. Family. Jaime cringed. “To another Tyrion. To another Tywin. A dead mother. To a sister who died when we were nine.”

Tyrion scoffed a single laugh, earning a stiff glare from Jaime. Tyrion replied, “A dead Cersei, what a thought. How did she die?”

He took his time to answer, clenching his fist in an attempt to release stress. “The story is that she fell into a well. But— we think someone pushed her,” Jaime said, never wanting to talk about it.

“Can’t say I don’t know why,” Tyrion said, playing with a beetle crawling around the palms of his hands. Jaime didn’t laugh at his brother’s joke. He always mourned his dead sister. He found it hard explaining what it felt like to lose a twin, someone created beside him. Something deep inside him died years ago with her. It hurt him to think his life may have been better without her. Their tumultuous relationship seemed destined for tragedy either way. 

“That Tyrion doesn’t need your help more than I do,” Tyrion added.

“You’re right,” Jaime said.

Tyrion inhaled. He asked, “Why are you here?”

A simple question with a complicated answer Jaime didn’t understand. Jaime frowned and said, “I don’t know.”

Bells rang.


	29. Chapter 29

_Why am I here?_ Tyrion’s words echoed through Jaime’s mind as he watched Tyrion arrive to the trial by combat in shackles. Jaime needed answers. He arrived into a world where everyone hated him except his own family. Jaime shifted in his seat as vultures cheered around him.

Tyrion’s guilt or innocence would be decided in a matter of minutes, and Jaime’s unknown fate persisted. Jaime closed his eyes, grasping the idea that if he didn’t try to leave, he’d be stuck in the past forever. _I’ll never return home. I’ll never hear my music again._ His unknown purpose in ancient Westeros infected him like a sickening disease he could no longer ignore. _Why am I here?_

The canopy provided shade from the bright sun, a celestial object Jaime ignored while in King’s Landing. It shined on, regardless of his ignorance, and burned onto Maester Pycelle, who announced the start of the trial. Underneath the maester’s feet, the stone stage reminded Jaime of the training grounds Brienne and Jaime shared— months ago. _If I had my right hand, could I fight The Mountain?_ Jaime squinted, awaiting Tyrion's monstrous rival. _Why am I here? To train?_

The Mountain entered the stage, dressed in complete armor. Drops of water blew onto Jaime's hands, either from the peaceful sea breeze or the crowds yelling spit. Jaime peeked at Cersei, whose corner of mouth twitched up into a smirk. _Tyrion doesn’t stand a chance._ Jaime clenched his fingers into a fist tight enough to break while fingers jolted from his right phantom hand. His imagined fingers tingled, ached and throbbed. _Why am I here? To lose a hand?_

Oberyn spun into combat with skill and spear, showing off. People clapped around from the crowd like it was entertainment. Jaime's insides swelled and burbled as the Mountain pulled out a longsword, larger than Oberyn. Jaime right foot tapped, tapped and tapped. _Could Brienne defeat such a creature? I wouldn’t let her near him._

Shouting to the crowd and the Mountain, Oberyn demanded his opponent’s confession— something Jaime knew nothing of. Jaime listened in horror as Oberyn described murders and rape. Jaime scowled alone. He couldn’t imagine much worse than murdering children and raping their mother. Even if Tyrion’s life didn’t depend on Oberyn’s success, Jaime would still root for him. Oberyn fought for revenge and was willing to die for it. _Why am I here? To die?_

Their fight continued, with Oberyn out-swinging better than his slow rival. Jaime glanced to Tyrion, nodding a single smile in his direction after Oberyn knocked the Mountain’s helmet off. Jaime’s throat choked when the Mountain knocked Oberyn down to the ground, but a quick, precise jab landed his spear through the Mountain’s abdomen. Jaime's quaking breathing resumed amid victorious smiles.

Soon, Jaime tried his best to hide his elated emotions, because Cersei glared at him. Oberyn sliced his spear through the Mountain’s thick calf. The crowd gasped, until Oberyn turned to the people. “Who gave you the order?” Oberyn asked, vindictive. He exaggerated his pointed finger towards the crown’s table. _Someone here gave the order?_ Jaime leaned forward and followed the invisible path of Oberyn’s finger, and the unmistakable path led to Jaime’s father, who sat rigid and serious. Jaime died inside, realizing his father ordered such horrible crimes. An array of emotions ran through Jaime: denial, disgust, even guilt. _Why am I here? To right my father’s mistakes?_

Jaime’s own mistakes flashed through his mind: irreplaceable, deadly mistakes. Ambulance sirens from the car accident dominated his ears, and he would never forget the image of that lifeless little boy. Bitterness of pills seeped into his cheeks and tongue, and Jaime swore he could still taste it. A taste he required to live… once. He chose to take it. No one forced him to do anything, and he chose to do them anyway. Addictive pills. Manipulative lover. Deceptive behavior. He chose it all— he even chose to touch the weirwood tree. _Why am I here? To right my own mistakes?_

Oberyn collapsed beside the Mountain, who rose from the ground. Time sped up as teeth flew out of Oberyn’s mouth with each punch. Reality knocked out Jaime, too. The Mountain rolled Oberyn onto his back and confessed to the murders and rape, all while scrunching Oberyn’s skull until it exploded. Jaime lost his breath.

The crowd roared as Jaime’s father stood in triumph. “The Gods have made their will known. Tyrion Lannister— in the name of King Tommen of House Baratheon, first of his name, you are hereby sentenced to death.”

Jaime glared at every smile around him, ready to hurl up bile due to their barbaric nature. _I know why I’m here and I’m fucking leaving._

With Tyrion’s sentence scheduled the following day, Jaime packed for traveling when he returned to the Red Keep. With the right horse, he could make it to the Isle of Faces in a couple weeks or less. Spending over a year in old Westeros prepared him. Jaime sleuthed, gathering sword and dried food without raising suspicion. Jaime pocketed flint, blankets and coins, preparing for inns or campgrounds. Before his departure, however, he needed to rescue his brother. For such a plan, and Jaime hated plans, he needed to find help.

Jaime prowled the halls for the Spider and pounced as soon as he saw a moment alone with him in winding corridors.

“Lord Jaime,” Varys said, almost bumping into Jaime with a smile. Jaime scowled, unsure how best to commit treason. “Sad fate about your brother, I’m afraid,” Varys said, motivating Jaime to lurch forward and slam Varys’ plump body into the wall. _I will pluck your legs out, one by one._ Smiles vanished from the bald man’s face, and Jaime’s lungs breathed more vengeance than air. This man spoke the most damning evidence at Tyrion’s trial.

“No sad fate,” Jaime whispered in anger, unsheathing a sword with his left hand. He pressed the sharpened blade against Varys’ neck as he squished them closer against the wall. “Because you are going to help him escape.”

Varys narrowed his eyes, starting to shake. “Why should I?”

Jaime’s face tightened into a threatening grimace, pressing his weight onto the man, and Jaime smelled flowers more than fear. He leaned closer, able to see beads of sweat congeal with powder on Varys' face. Jaime said, “Because I have a blade that’s very persuasive.” He grew tired of being everyone else’s pawn, and he was ready to play the game himself. He’d get no results from waiting or hoping. He needed to act. And time was running out.

Varys nodded, and while Jaime sheathed his sword, the Spider disclosed a plan so intricate, Jaime wondered if he already conceived it. He didn’t press where or how Varys would help Tyrion escape, but he made Varys promise his brother would be safe. Varys assured him, and told him to wait until the guards fell asleep before setting his brother free, along with instructions on where to go. Varys planned to take care of everything else.

Jaime waited, trying his best to remain calm as the idea of escaping dawned on him. He realized how insecure he became over time. Little by little, life humbled him. First, the lover that never loved him back. Then, addiction. Entering a new world amplified his lessons, catalyzed by one of the most amazing woman he ever met: Brienne of Tarth. If she were in his position, she would do the same— rescue the innocent.

Stepping over sleeping guards, Jaime unlatched Tyrion’s cell and stepped in.

“Oh get on with it, you son of a whore,” Tyrion said in a groan.

Jaime reached for a torch and glared with a smirk, “Is that any way to speak about our mother?”

“What are you doing?” Tyrion asked, growing panicked.

“What do you think I’m doing?” Jaime left the door open and allowed Tyrion to rush out. Jaime led both of them through constricting hallways. 

As they walked, Jaime ducked down and Tyrion asked, "Who helped you?"

"Varys," Jaime said, turning around to face his brother. "Locked door at the top of the stairs. Knock twice, then twice again. Varys will open." Jaime fastened his torch against shadows and flames bathed them both. Jaime curled his toes within his boots and peered down a separate hallway. He had his own escape to complete. After a final sigh, Jaime nodded towards his brother and turned to walk away.

“I suppose this is goodbye then,” Tyrion said, turning to face his brother.

_Yes, goodbye forever. Gods, what am I thinking?_ Jaime inhaled and returned to his only friend, lowering himself and pulling his brother into a tight embrace.

“Farewell, little brother,” Jaime whispered, grieving their departure as a true loss.

Jaime stood as Tyrion said, “Jaime. Thank you, for my life. I love you as a brother just the same.”

His brother's words overwhelmed Jaime, almost to the point of Jaime wanting to travel with him. However, his own hammering heart reminded him of his goal: home. He needed to touch the weirwood tree. Jaime forced a nod and left as quickly as his legs would take him, suppressing his devastated emotions.

_I remember how they took you down  
As the winter turned the meadow brown  
You go wherever you go today  
You go today_

Jaime left the castle, leaving his armor alone in his chambers, polished and almost never used. It didn’t matter, as he gained better protection: confidence.

At an entry point in the city, guards held him back and bombarded him with questions. 

“What’s your business leaving?”

“Where is the King’s approval?”

“We have orders for no one to leave this gate.”

With a roar, Jaime glowered down at them and said, “As Lord Lannister, I outrank whomever gave you that order. Let me pass or you’ll have a long, tireless night.”

After quick glances, the three guards moved aside, giving Jaime’s horse room enough to canter through the barrier shackling him for far too long. Now, he was free.


	30. Chapter 30

Jaime covered his golden hand and rode on, rarely using coin or staying at inns. He mimicked Brienne, staying far away from roads and people. His eyes closed and opened to sparkling skies and whispering trees. The moon filled each night until it almost burst. Every new day was a day closer to home. As a man who enjoyed talking, he tempted himself to purchase a companion, sellsword or stay a few extra nights at an inn when bad weather inconvenienced him— but risk of capture weighed on his mind. Freedom was worth silence and discomfort. 

On week two, he reached God’s Eye Lake. He traveled north, through dense forest, straining his eyes to search for a spare boat and paddle along the shore. It took him two days of trotting and camping along to find one swaying in the glass-like lake. From above, the sun burned him and his new boat with anticipation. He was there. He was ready. _I’m almost home._

Jaime withdrew his items from his saddle and spooked his stallion on his way with a hard slap. The steed galloped, as if he feared the lake would swallow him whole. Jaime hoped his horse would discover a kind, new owner. 

With his seat settled in the small boat, Jaime pushed himself into the lake, smooth as honey. He strapped his golden hand to a paddle and rowed in poor form, but still glided through oncoming fog. Each surreal breath and heartbeat felt like yesterday and another life. In a strange way… he knew he would miss this place.

He rowed steady, trying to reserve his energy. It would take time, but he needed to prepare for onslaughts of photographers, social media and questions he dreaded confronting. He hoped he pointed his boat in the right direction, but mist clogged his eyes. To his surprise, the tip of the boat reached island shore, and Jaime stepped from a cloud and into a dream— as if reality could disappear at any moment. Persistent fog obscured a crackling sound in the distance. Jaime paused. _Someone’s here._ Jaime unsheathed his only protection, a sword, despite not seeing anything. Somewhere in front of him, beautiful metal notes waved through thick mist— another sword. His urgent heart pounded and awaited for an entire army. _No one can stop me._

He pressed and stepped forward with caution, guarding himself and abandoning his items and his boat. _Only seconds away from home._ Fog cleared, revealing innocent, vibrant grass. Skies opened and sunlight flooded through wavering red leaves. Each stem clung for its life against its weirwood branch, until autumn plucked a handful to fall. As leaves descended, smoke lifted, spreading higher and higher as Jaime’s view continued to focus. He followed the trail of smoke to a small campfire, beside a large knight.

Time stopped when he saw Brienne.

_Your past becomes your future. Your love awaits you at the northern weirwood._

Jaime’s heart exploded. He found something better than home. He misunderstood the prophecy— until now. His fear vanished with the fog and transformed into pure determination. For months, he made mistake after mistake with Brienne, and when he accepted that he’d never see her again, she appeared. Jaime walked forward, throwing his sword and gloves to the ground while Brienne petrified at the sight of him. 

As he came closer, path immovable, Brienne sheathed her sword without breaking eye contact and her face ruptured into a bright blush. “Ser Jaime.”

Jaime reached for her and wasted not a second longer. His hand seized her face and pulled her down into a kiss. Her thick, delicate lips tensed over his. He prepared for a fight— a fight he would lose if she saw him as an enemy, not a lover. Only her timid lips answered, opening alongside his pattering heart. Enticing, soft and feminine flavors met his tongue. For the first time, she yielded to him.

He refused to misread her again.

_Words, playing me deja vu  
Like a radio tune   
I swear I’ve heard before  
Chill, is it something real  
Or the magic I’m feeding off your fingers_

Surrendering to his own feral hunger, Jaime pressed Brienne into her camp amidst an unbreakable kiss. Her height proved an issue, and instead of dominating him, she lowered herself and gripped fabric on his chest with rough hands. Her ignorance showed in her kiss: shy, wet, and quiet. Jaime didn’t care. He adored her innocence. However, he harbored no purity, and he wanted her writhing under him— skin to skin, breath to breath and tongue to tongue.

Jaime moaned into her as their tangling bodies descended to the ground. She tightened her clutch. Jaime nestled above her as they lay down, slowing and deepening the kiss as she melted underneath him. He broke their kiss for air, and together, they drew in shallow, uneven breaths. His hand abandoned her burning skin and fussed with the cords on her tunic. _Take this off._ Brienne ungloved herself and rescued him. Her restless fingers loosened the top and Jaime, too, turned impatient— spreading her tunic for him while his mouth dove onto naked skin below her neck. Brienne’s soft, pale chest flinched under his stubble. His lips followed the sweet edge of her freeing tunic, tasting and kissing new skin. The lower his eyes traveled, the less freckles appeared. New scars below her collar bone distracted him, dark and healing. Lust overpowered worry, and his fingers grazed over it before tracing it with light kisses. Her chest shivered while her teeth dug into her own swollen lips. Brienne remained quiet, but her body screamed for him.

His hand pulled at her tunic and revealed the same breasts that haunted him since their bath. Jaime covered her nipple and it hardened in his mouth. Brienne whimpered and lifted her chest against him. Insatiable urges left him craving more. His hand lowered to her spread thighs, racing under her robe to give her more pleasure. Brienne looked down at him and he smirked against her soft breast. Unafraid, Jaime gripped Brienne between her thighs, and she grasped his hair with a sharp inhale. He imagined her naked, wet and eager— all for him.

A sweet, burning ache twisted inside of him. _I can’t believe this is happening_ Between his lips escaped a moan, spreading his breath across her half open chest. She moaned back. His cock throbbed at the sound. Jaime glanced up as Brienne arched under his touch.

_I’ll have you moan so loudly every man in Westeros will hear you._ Jaime lifted himself to his knees, shook off his golden hand and pulled on her trousers. Her hands reached down. He paused, until her own hands pushed off her trousers and smallclothes, revealing her pale, thick thighs underneath. Out of impulse, Jaime loosened his own trousers, listening to his primal need to consume her. Her spreading, bare thighs distracted him and unable to fight temptation, he abandoned his loosened trousers and crawled his palm up her porcelain legs— the same way he did in his first dream about her. She felt better than his dream: soft and strong. A boastful smirk came from Jaime when his hand found her warm and wet. He wished he could fuck her— cock, fingers, tongue, it didn’t matter. He knew she would never allow him. Jaime settled for the next best thing, stroking her under his moving thumb. Brienne dissolved before his eyes, tensing, relaxing and gripping the grass between her clenching fingers— nails digging in soil. His loosened trousers and smallclothes fell below his cock, which ached for attention in chilled air. _If I had two hands…_ It throbbed with each of her lost moans and desperate breaths. She was close— 

But— 

Brienne reached, clasped his face and pulled him into a passionate kiss. Her pleasurable distraction caught him off guard. He gave in, but only for a moment, soon matching her insatiable intensity. Jaime lifted his hand to her cheek while he pressed her back down to the grass. In a perfect fit, her thighs opened for him, and Jaime settled his weight on her. For the first time, her hands explored, snaking down his back. Even through clothes, her touch provoked him to moan and to grind himself forward— until he felt the edge of his cock press against her— hot, wet and inviting. If he thrust forward, even slightly— Gods, he was so close to fucking her.

But he couldn’t. Honor was so important to her. Jaime froze, breaking the kiss and gazing over Brienne. Their heated breaths mixed and twirled between their lips with her distinct, musky scent drifting off his hand. Months of choking separation couldn’t hold him back, but her honor could. Jaime squeezed her cheek between his thumb and palm, and he looked down to see eyes dominated by lust and devotion. The tip of his cock begged to press forward, and he denied its plea, remaining still. Anticipation killed him with every pound of his pulse, and seeking distraction, his mouth surrounded her lips, chilled from autumn air. She kissed back harder. Brienne’s hands gripped his bare hips and steadily pulled him closer— forcing him to enter her. As his cock sank into her, Jaime’s mouth fell open mid-kiss and moaned in pleasure over her. She wanted this. She wanted him. And she took him for herself.

They remained still as Jaime’s mind obsessed over new, warm pressure surrounding his cock. He couldn’t imagine a better feeling. Brienne’s breaths shallowed and her hands returned to cup his face. In awe of her, he let her tug him closer. They kissed again, with Jaime sucking and teasing her lips that never left his tormented mind. Carefully, he thrust forward, causing Brienne to shiver in whimpers underneath him. Erupting from her, feminine sounds intoxicated him. Jaime pulled himself back and thrust again, grinding into her as they tried to remain as close as possible for warmth. With each push, Brienne gripped harder and moaned louder, and she blinded him more than the bright sun that bathed them both. Their joined bodies left an imprint in the grass. 

He followed her lead, pouring out more and more adoration for her. Jaime reached down with his good hand, trying his best to build her along as he slowly fucked her. Brienne bucked, strained and arched against him. She dripped over him, and he wanted nothing more than to make her come undone— constrict him until he could no longer draw breath. But, for the second time, she reached down to stop him and pull his hand away from between her thighs. She forced him to kiss her. Her intentions confused him, but her teeth distracted him well enough: pulling and sucking on his bottom lip before her hands clawed into his bare ass.

He no longer held himself back.

He fucked her, and she burst with shameless moans, making him want to fuck her harder. He did. The first threat of oncoming release surged through him. A senseless animal inside him wanted to fill her, again and again until she emptied him. His cock throbbed as tension gained speed. _Fuck._ Jaime thrust once more and pulled himself out, reaching down to stroke himself. Still wet from her, Jaime came quickly, covering the inside of her robe and thigh while he released a stifled roar. Jaime’s pounding heart deafened him, and his knees turned to powder. Everything intensified. The sun burned brighter. Scents of ash from the campfire filled his lungs. Under him, Brienne caught her own breath. He thought he could die happy in that moment.

His shocked mind returned and they dressed along a quiet, smoldering fire. With two good hands, Brienne finished in the same time it took Jaime to tighten his trousers. An unspoken tension remained between them, and Jaime tried to break it first. “No time for sleep?” Jaime said, “Another round? What about you? You didn’t— ” _finish._ He hoped she’d say yes to the sleep and no to another— he wasn’t as young as he used to be. But he was sure she didn’t finish, and a musician’s fingers could last a long time. _My mouth can last longer._

Brienne blinked out of a daydream and licked her lips. She lifted herself off the ground and tended to the dying fire— ignoring him. He came down from his high and guilty eyes followed her. _Did I say something wrong? Do something wrong?_ She cleared her throat and said, “He will be back soon.”

Floored, Jaime scoffed and stood in protest. “There’s another man?” _I can’t fucking believe this._

“Podrick, the squire. He’s hunting.” 

_The squire I sent months ago to help her._ Relief spread over him as he nodded and let out a tense breath. _Thank the Gods he's away._ Jaime didn’t know what he expected: a cuddly post-coital embrace where they’d both fall asleep in each other’s arms or confess he wanted her for so long. He sounded like a romantic sap in his own head. Jaime winced and looked away, calculating how to bring Brienne out of her own head and talk to him.

She bloomed and opened on her own, staring past him while she said, “I’ve wondered which one it was.”

Jaime dragged his tongue against his lips, removing last lingering tastes of Brienne. His stomach lurched into his throat, suffocating him away from reality. He remembered. _I came here to leave, not—_ He sighed and stepped to the closest tree. “This one,” he said. _The northern weirwood._

“How did it happen?” Brienne followed behind him.

Jaime shook his head and stalled, focusing on the intense frowning face etched into the sacred tree trunk. “I really didn’t do anything,” he said. He stepped closer— he was so close to home— Jaime wanted this. He always wanted this. “I heard this buzzing sound,” within arms reach of the trunk, Jaime stretched out his curious left hand as he said, “and I just… touched the tree—”

Brienne captured him, pulling him away from the tree. She held him in a tight embrace. Both hands clasped around his stubbled cheeks. 

“Jaime.” Her whisper thundered in his ears. Their foreheads leaned together as Jaime breathed her in— clenching his eyes shut. They were moments from being centuries apart, and she stabbed him with one word:

“Stay.”


	31. Chapter 31

Stay.

Brienne asked him to stay. Jaime stared at his weakness, which cupped his face in her hands. Through rattling leaves, sun rays threatened to blind him. Like her skin, the sun warmed him. Jaime retreated inside his mind, scared of emotions and Brienne’s vulnerability. Over a year, he lived in a ruined, foreign land. It starved him, stole his hand and imprisoned his brother. _Tyrion._ Jaime winced at the thought of his only brother— both of them. His loyalty to his own family ripped his own heart apart. Each of them feasted on Jaime’s devotion and he feared he had nothing left to give. And Brienne deserved all of him. Her eyes, as powerful as her muscles, demanded honesty of him. Jaime nailed his eyes shut, refusing to fall under her spell. Reality still haunted him. He _was_ a one night stand man. He didn’t deserve Brienne, he knew. An old, crippled addict was useless to her. Jaime accumulated more unfilled vows than he ever intended, and guilt of having her itched under his skin. He loved every moment of it, but all of the love in the world wouldn’t stop rain from falling.

His answer evaded him. “It’s not up to me,” he said, eyes closed.

Brienne’s chilled and soft fingers caressed his face. Seconds later, she pulled them away and took his heart with her. Jaime let out a breath, and opened eyes to see her turned away. Frigid, empty muscles prevented him to stretch out for her or the weirwood, both well within reach. His mind raced double time, conflicted by the thought of staying. _Change now? I can die any moment here, you have to understand— why would I stay?_ His mind whispered, _For her._ Jaime looked up, but the sky provided no answers, only a quiet sun, shy behind feathering clouds. His hand clenched, wanting her again, again and again. Words vanished from him until Brienne walked away. 

“Where are you going?” Jaime asked, desperate and panicked at the amplifying distance between them. 

“To get Podrick,” she said, never turning her head back to answer him. Brienne’s walls returned, even stronger than before, and Jaime regretted being stuck outside. Before she walked away, she said, “We’ll return to camp soon, should you decide to stay.” 

Jaime remained still, paralyzed by choice and guilt. Every step from Brienne constricted his heart more— yet he couldn’t act. One wrong move could mean a lifetime of regret. He watched in silence as she readied her horse, her beautiful bay mare, and galloped off to find her squire. The sun left with her, leaving him in whispering shade.

If he were to leave and go back to modern times, the sun would shine the same. Jaime remembered the sword belt he made her, adorned with golden suns— her sigil. His eyes closed and imagined her face, kisses painted by the sun. A chilling breeze drifted over him as the realization hit him: Brienne was the sun. And in a world without her, the sun would haunt and follow him every single day. Without her, the sun would lose its power, forcing him into a cold and permanent shadow.

_Oh and if I had a brain,_  
_I’d be cold as a stone and rich as the fool,_  
_That turned all those good hearts away_

“Lord Jaime?”

Jaime whirled around to see a young woman, dressed in a dark gown with brunette hair. Her blue eyes interrogated him as she twisted her gloved hands within themselves. Jaime blinked, fearing hallucination. Taller than he remembered, and with much darker hair, stood Sansa Stark. Jaime’s mouth broke open as armored guards walked behind her, hands on hilts. 

“What are you doing here?” Jaime asked, concerned.

“I—” she said as ten men followed behind her, “wanted to pray at the weirwoods.”

“To which I discouraged,” a man said, stepping out from behind guards, “and she now knows why. Seven blessings, Jaime Lannister, it’s a surprise seeing you here. You must be praying hard. This is quite the reunion.”

Petyr Baelish. Jaime inhaled a deep breath and tilted his head to the side, trying his best to assess the situation. Sansa surpassed Petyr’s height, having grown since Jaime last saw her. _Why are you with him?_ Jaime scowled across the small rolling hill between them. Dead weirwood leaves tumbled across swaying blades of grass. Behind them, a blue flag with a white bird flapped in the wind. _The Vale?_ Nothing made sense. Sansa father, nor mother, was from the Vale. Petyr wasn't even a lord of a major house, he said so himself. Something was wrong. Goosebumps raised on Jaime's arms at the sight of Petyr’s subtle smirk.

“Sansa, if we can have a word alone,” Jaime asked.

“No,” Sansa said.

Disturbed, Jaime frowned and said, “Brienne and I can—“

“You’re a Lannister. You should leave,” Sansa said.

Petyr stepped forward and gestured hands his lower towards his guards, who loosened their grips on their hilts. With a kind smile, Petyr faced Jaime and said to Sansa, “We don’t want your former partner, however amicable the annulment, wandering the countryside alone. The roads in this part aren't safe.” Petyr stepped toward Jaime, “Why don’t you stay with us?”

“I’m staying,” Jaime said with a veiled, thin smile. “Right here.” Jaime made his choice. He wanted to stay.

“Forgive me, I should have clarified—” Petyr slowed his pace. A whiff of mint came out from his tongue. “I have no interest turning you in.”

“Turning me in?” Jaime asked, reaching for a sword no longer there. _Shit._

Petyr cocked his head to the side with a narrow glare. “Have you not heard? Your late father has been murdered. King Tommen and your sister are looking for you.”

Jaime took a step back on crumbling legs and shook his head. _He’s dead?_ Petyr stopped moving and held out an open palm. In a voice croaking with emotion, Jaime said, “It wasn’t me.”

“I know it wasn’t, else you would have known,” Petyr said, walking to the campsite. He scanned the surrounding area. “It was your brother, the night he left King’s Landing.” Petyr clasped his hands together and turned towards Jaime. “I wish I could have been there. To help.”

Jaime heard, but almost didn’t listen. _No, he couldn’t have killed our father…_ He frowned and glared at bent, crushed grass beneath his feet. _I let him loose. It’s my fault._

“Rest assured, Lord Jaime, we’re going somewhere safe and far away from King’s Landing. We have the same interest, you and I. And I insist that you join us,” Petyr said, stepping over a pile of ash next to the fire. “Are you— alone?” Petyr asked.

Jaime forced a weak smile, hoping to evade Petyr’s intense eyes. He glanced over to see no sight of Brienne or Podrick. With a tense and tight jaw, Jaime answered, “I am fine how I am.” 

“There is strength in numbers, Lord Jaime, and I am now Lord Protector of the Eyrie and the Vale of Arryn. But—” Petyr motioned for Jaime to sit down, “perhaps we can stay and enjoy a cooked meal in your camp?”

 _How in Seven Hells did you do that?_ Jaime stared into dying embers, watching them breathe and suffocate with each gust of wind. Sansa, still standing on a small hall and surrounded by guards, watched Petyr for guidance. _She’s a prisoner?_ Jaime winced and looked away. A gut feeling insisted Petyr had no interest in separating himself from Sansa. _Why would he? She’s wanted for the death of Joffrey._ If Jaime stayed, Petyr and his men would, too. Ten men. Jaime scanned over each of them. _Brienne can’t take all of them._

Jaime examined the somewhat weak, smiling man as he awaited Jaime’s response. Something wasn’t right, and intuition insisted Sansa wasn’t safe. _What would a knight do?_ Pressure surrounded him, and Jaime said, “I’ll join you.”

A flicker of a smile ran over Petyr, and he stepped towards Jaime. “Welcome, Lord Jaime, you are safe,” Petyr said. 

_I’m anything but safe._ Jaime did his best not to flinch when Petyr placed a gentle hand on his back. He guided Jaime towards the guards. Petyr’s hand dropped when the two of them reached within arm’s distance of Sansa, who fidgeted with her sleeves. _Her, I’m doing this for her._ Jaime managed a smile towards his former wife, but she refused to accept it and averted her eyes away. _I thought we were friends._ Jaime frowned. 

Sansa’s burnt gray dress swished as she pivoted away, and she left with a scoff. “I’ll pray later,” she said. 

_Best do that, Lady Sansa._ Jaime’s phantom hand itched. _Without Brienne, you need all the Gods you can get._ He made a vow to protect her, and if it meant joining someone for a ride— so be it. Jaime side eyed a few guards, who waited for him to walk towards their large sailboat. _Sorry to ruin your field trip, boys._ Jaime smirked.

Petyr leaned closer to a guard and motioned the soldier to the camp. With a subtle grin, Petyr said to him, “Take his golden hand. A lion needs his paw.”


	32. Chapter 32

Time flew. Jaime sat alone, most days, tucked away in a carriage as the party went north, north, north. His ass ached from dizzying bumps on the road, and bile crept up his throat. His left hand itched for escape and his heavy, golden hand weighed on his arm. They covered Jaime’s metal hand whenever they allowed him to eat at empty inns with Sansa and Petyr, and unspoken shame continued.

Two weeks into their unknown travels, Jaime and Sansa sat alone at a booth in a rundown inn. Smoke and soot covered every surface, as if they were aiming for a gothic aesthetic. Smells of yeast and homemade ale made Sansa and Jaime’s nose scrunch. Gone were the days of lush, cushioned seats of King’s Landing. _Or Brienne’s thighs._ Jaime closed his eyes and set down his utensil, which dangled a small fish bone. Jaime needed to escape, and take Sansa with him. With Petyr gone, Jaime leaned over in his seat and peered for a route to leave the inn— without guards noticing. _And go where? Knock on Brienne’s door?_ Desperate and foolish, Jaime didn’t care, but he demanded progress. _We’ll go back, all of us, back to Casterly Rock. Home._ If only he knew that months ago. _Where else is home, if it’s not Casterly Rock?_ He was lost. If only he knew how lucky he had it, training with Brienne for months.

“He won’t let you go,” Sansa said. She sat still, having already finished her meal. Her eyes almost never met his and she preferred to ignore his existence. The damn girl transformed into a cold woman overnight. Her only eye contact towards him were in glares, and beyond that, she looked away. _I see you won’t repay the debt for my kindness._ Without marriage binding them, Sansa felt no obligation to be his friend. Jaime’s mouth tightened and he turned to his food: half-rotting, saltless, fish water with undercooked vegetables. He sighed.

Sansa added, “No one is supposed to know I’m with him.”

“For your protection, I’m sure,” Jaime said with sarcasm and a half smile. 

“Yes, I am free. We’re traveling for a wedding proposal,” Sansa said, as if Jaime was stupid for considering any other reason.

Jaime sneered in her direction, losing his tolerance with the young woman. She was almost sixteen years old, and acted as if he was younger than her. Jaime glowered, tempting himself to belittle her. “His or yours? Both?” 

Sansa’s mouth opened and she turned her head away. “I’ll never marry again.”

Jaime leaned back and smirked. “I’m humbled you think so highly of me.” It pleased him to hear Sansa wasn’t betrothed, but it failed to explain _why_ Sansa needed to risk recognition to travel with a stranger, or _why_ she traveled with Petyr.

Sansa refused to respond and waited for Petyr to return. She infuriated Jaime almost as much as Brienne. Weary of strangers, Sansa was even more weary of help. If only she knew of the things Jaime did to try and protect her. He could have done a much better job. Jaime took in a deep breath and tried to let the stress out with it with a long, drawn out exhale. _I can't resent her for her choices._

Jaime asked, “Why are you with him?”

“He’s my uncle by marriage. Who else would I be with?”

Petyr had left out all of these important details, including the marriage relation, when Jaime asked about them in King’s Landing. The betrayal cut deep, stinging into him and twisting his stomach inside out. Jaime frowned and shook his head. “Your former husband.” He narrowed his glare towards her, raising his tone and quickening his words. “Or at the very least, Brienne of Tarth. Why—”

“The woman who killed her own king and allowed my mother to be slaughtered while she dragged you across Westeros? You both may have been kind to me, but your family—” Sansa stopped and held herself back. “Neither of you can be trusted.”

_You forget we saved you from bandits?_ Jaime couldn’t believe his ears. In less than a year, Sansa went from asking Jaime to travel with her to refusing even Brienne’s help. Jaime leaned back into the stiff booth and stared at the guards surrounding them. Jaime reached a dead end. Hearing negative words about Brienne hurt Jaime, but not much as their goodbye. Or lack thereof. Jaime imagined Brienne arriving back to camp to see him gone. He pictured her crying. He also pictured her forgetting him with a single sigh. He hoped the stubborn woman persisted, and if she were any good, she’d figure out a way to rescue Sansa and Jaime. Maybe Arya, if she was lucky. _Gods, be safe._

Softer in voice, Sansa said, “As long as I’m with Littlefinger, I’m safe.”

Jaime tilted his head. Littlefinger. _Petyr is Littlefinger?_ Tyrion mentioned him and Jaime was a fool to not realize it. Jaime’s pit in his stomach grew and grew until he almost retched up his soup. He lifted his chin up as guards allowed Petyr, Littlefinger, to pass through them. With his characteristic smile, Littlefinger flashed his eyes between his prisoners before he bowed to Sansa. Littlefinger said, “Cold weather expected ahead, My Lady, My Lord.”

For four months, they took their time meandering through the forests and countrysides. The onslaught of chill increased every evening. No one had to tell Jaime where they were heading: the North. Direland— a modern country he _hated_. Endless snow, half dead pine trees, and accents he couldn’t understand. He much preferred warm beaches and sunburns. Never ending goosebumps would age him, and his balls would permanently shrink into his body. But at the very least, it was Sansa’s home— even if some new family inhabited the cursed rubble. Jaime hoped he would avoid the mysterious plague that killed thousands of people in Winterfell. _Fingers crossed._

When their party arrived at the gates of Winterfell, the guards kept Jaime in his carriage. Hours later, with Jaime shivering and red with chill, soldiers guided Jaime into the castle— fresh snow crunching under his boots.

Awaiting him, stood a brooding man Jaime never thought he’d see again... Roose Bolton. _Ah yes, your reward for betraying your own King in the North. How could I forget?_

“Lord Lannister, what a surprise to see you,” Roose said in a deep voice, lacking all excitement.

Jaime forced a smile and stepped forward, trying his best to appear like the lord he was supposed to be. “Lord Bolton. I assumed I would be a welcome guest, since our family’s last partnership.” 

“A shame you didn’t prepare us for your arrival. But— the Warden of the North welcomes you. It seems a lot has changed, and you arrive with one less father and your former wife. A curious decision.”

“Emphasis on the former part. And I accept your condolences,” Jaime said.

Jaime and Roose stared at each other. Jaime spotted more gray hairs on the man’s clean shaven face, but then again, Jaime accumulated a new set of his own. He stood in Roose’s home, surrounded by Roose’s army. Several men around them side eyed Jaime as he assessed his surroundings. His breath extended out into mist, disappearing, rising and stealing any last remaining warmth from his body. Across the small courtyard, men snickered, and Roose shared their smirks. Everyone in the North hated the Lannister name, even Boltons. Jaime’s one trick, his father, was no longer available. In addition, he was months away from the closest ally. Jaime possessed little leverage, if any at all. Humbled, Jaime refused to show it and smiled as his humid breath condensed in mid air.

Roose mirrored his grin and said, “You’re in good hands.” Roose looked at Jaime’s right arm, “I’m afraid they’re not golden like yours. You’ll get used to the cold.”

Refusing to let the man have the last word, Jaime said, “I’ve already experienced enough of it.”

Roose let out a small, quiet laugh and walked away. 

Much to his annoyance, everyone left Jaime alone. They gave him chambers, however primitive and small they were. Dark, dreary stone walls hot to the touch with pathetic, small windows that let in so little light, every room and hallway needed regular lit candles. The only comfortable item in Winterfell was a bed, and even that was a stretch. Smelly fur pelts, quilts and sheets did little to keep him warm. _Gods, if Brienne were here…_

Quill tried to meet scroll, in an attempt to write Brienne for help, but Winterfell’s maester refused to speak with him. Winterfell’s mazes and scowling glances crushed him while he searched for help: rope, keys, horses— even a damn smile. With no coin to purchase anyone’s loyalty, he remained alone… and a prisoner. A week into his arrival and boredom, Boltons asked Jaime to supper. Not knowing the layout of the castle, Jaime lost himself through winding, tightening halls, until a young brunette woman found him and escorted him to the main hall. At least she was nice.

Roose Bolton sat in the middle, beside a rather large woman. Across, a younger man sat next to Sansa. An empty chair rested beside the young man, who noticed Jaime’s presence. His eyes widened and he stepped up to greet him with insistence. A permanent cold draft constricted the large room, making it less warm than the Bolton’s smiles. Sansa, on the other hand, gazed at her plate.

“Come, Lord Lannister, join us. I am Ramsay Bolton, son of Roose,” Ramsay said.

Jaime stepped forward and joined them at the table. His eyes gazed over everyone as he tried to understand everyone’s relationship. Littlefinger’s absence surprised Jaime, but he guessed the large woman was another Bolton child and Petyr’s future bride. 

“I trust you find your chambers suitable, My Lady?” Roose asked Sansa.

“Yes, thank you, My Lord.” Her voice was weak, low and pathetic.

Roose’s eyes shifted. Jaime looked down to see the same meal on his plate: half bloody meat with carrots and potatoes. Jaime missed dried fruits and pastries from King’s Landing and Casterly Rock. 

“Mother,” Ramsay said, stealing Jaime’s attention. Ramsay poured wine into the woman’s goblet as she thanked him. _She’s his mother?!_ She smiled as Jaime tried to hide his shock. _If she’s married to Roose, then—_

Ramsay stood and started a toast, signaling to Sansa and the table. He talked about family, Northerners and blood ties, all while Jaime’s gut suffocated. Ramsay mentioned his wedding, and Jaime understood. Littlefinger wasn’t marrying anyone. Sansa was marrying Ramsay.

“To your wedding,” both Roose and Lady Bolton said. Jaime leaned over to look at Sansa, who avoided eye contact with him. She held her goblet, and with Roose’s stare in Jaime’s direction, he rushed to grab own goblet. Jaime inhaled a deep breath and said, “To— your— wedding.” Jaime’s face whitened, realizing he lived in a complete trap. 

_Maybe this time I can be strong  
But since I know who I am  
I’m probably wrong  
Maybe this time I can go far  
But thinking about where I’ve been  
Ain’t helping me start_

Ramsay scooted his chair back in and smiled before asking, “And I must ask, your marriage was never—”

“No,” Sansa said, still gazing at her food, which hadn't been touched.

Every Bolton turned their focus to Jaime.

Ramsay said, “Strange. I notice the lack of hand, is there... a lack of something else?”

Rarely speechless, Jaime met eyes with Ramsay. _Even if I had a phantom cock, I’d still be bigger than you._ The taunting was enough to make Jaime snap, but the realization that this man wanted to _marry_ Sansa… _If I had both hands, I’d kill you right now._

Lady Bolton attempted to ease the tension by speaking to Sansa. “It must be difficult for you, being in a strange place.”

Sansa straightened her back. “This isn’t a strange place, this is my home. It's the people who are strange.”

“You’re right. Very strange,” Ramsay said, turning back to Sansa. “More wine, please,” he called out.

A limping man covered in dirt entered, dressed in rags. The mood of the room shifted, and Ramsay described the reunion between the man called Reek and Sansa. Jaime recognized years of resentment between the servant and Sansa. Reek, face sunken and old, called Ramsay master. Jaime held back a wince.

“Why are you doing this?” Sansa asked. Jaime contemplated Ramsay while he ordered the man to apologize for murdering her two brothers. The young Bolton’s lips curved into a hyena’s smile. Foul breath from Ramsay’s nose invaded Jaime’s space. The room fell silent except for fluttering birds outside the windows and flickering candles. _This guy gets off on this._

After Reek’s stuttering apology, Ramsay smiled at Jaime and said, “You killed Torrhen Karstark, one of our bannerman’s sons. I should have you apologize the same way.”

Jaime managed a grin. “On behalf of Ser Daven, who committed that act, I can assure you that a Lannister always pays their debts.”

Ramsay mustered up a pathetic laugh. “You know what, My Lady? With him, having murdered your brothers, and the rest of your family gone. Reek is the nearest thing to living kin that you have left.” Ramsay called out across the room and said, “Reek! You will give away the bride. Someone has to. What better person? Good?”

“Yes, yes, very good,” Roose said. “Walda and I have some good news as well, since we’re all together.”

Lady Bolton froze, like someone about to deliver bad news. She forced a smile and said, “We’re with child.”

Ramsay sat stunned and Sansa replied, “I’m very happy for you.”

Jaime and Sansa sat in silence while Ramsay searched for peace at the bottom of his goblet. Roose taunted Ramsay with the understanding Walda’s unborn baby was a boy.

After dinner, and out of Ramsay’s earshot, Jaime asked Roose Bolton for an unusual favor: a word with Lady Sansa. Either to spite his son or some other motive, Roose allowed it. Jaime stared at flickering candles until everyone else left the hall. His toes, half numb inside his own boots, flexed and curled in order to release building tension. Two chairs away, Sansa remained still, except her shaking chest. Jaime leaned forward, ignoring the smells of roast meat tugging at his gut. He needed to eat, but urgency demanded his full attention.

Sansa continued to avoid his eye contact.

Jaime whispered, “Are you fucking mad? Marrying—”

“This is my home. I’m not a bystander anymore.” Her voice deepened, and yet, he knew those words weren’t hers. 

_You seem to forget you told me you won’t marry again._ “No, he’ll turn you into that man. Reek,” Jaime said, hoping to get a rise out of her.

Sansa winced and matched his anger, no longer whispering, “Theon deserves it and more. My father raised him like a son and he killed my brothers.”

Jaime closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. “Sansa, what is your plan? You can’t be serious—”

“There’s no justice unless we make it.”

“You’re right,” Jaime said, frowning at her. “You’re telling me that you would rather marry the son of a man who killed your mother and brother?”

“I married you. What’s the difference?” Sansa asked.

“The difference is you think you have a choice here, when nobody has a choice— and you know that. I should have rescued you long before the wedding, even if I only had days to do it.”

“And take me where? Here?”

_Anywhere but here._


	33. Chapter 33

From that point on, they locked Jaime in his chambers. With no wood, ash straggled and swirled within a frigid hearth. With little to no food, Jaime’s stomach rumbled. With little to no water, his shriveling tongue stuck to the top of his mouth. With no one to talk to, he ruminated over his situation. Several days allowed Jaime the time to realize Littlefinger’s plan. He abandoned Jaime with the Boltons in order to keep his silence. Cersei wanted Sansa dead, and for all Littlefinger knew, Jaime valued family over everything. He assumed, of course, Littlefinger sold Sansa and left with his riches— or to scheme elsewhere. Jaime, still breathing, had a fighting chance to save Sansa. However, his confinement left him little options. Seven Hells, he’d even escape to Casterly Rock and march up his Lannister army if it meant he’d save Sansa from another marriage. But there was no time. 

A key unlocked his door and the sound of metal turning sent Jaime’s heart wavering. In came a woman— the same woman who helped him find the Bolton’s dining hall. Slinking inside, she brought in a tray full of water pitchers, a bowl and steaming bread soaked in butter: a rarity in the North. Jaime’s mouth watered. She sent him a bashful smile and set the tray down on a table.

“There’s meat stew in the bowl, M’lord,” she said.

Jaime grimaced, wondering why she helped him. “Thank you—” he said, not knowing her name.

“Myranda,” she said. Her voice resembled velvet.

He nodded and gazed at the tray— pausing. 

As if she knew what he thought, she said, “It’s safe. I’ve tested it.”

Jaime walked to the food as his guts lurched inside of him. She stayed, watching him. With a calm hand, he reached down to grab the bread, still oven warm. He wanted to ask her about the Boltons, ask her about Sansa, or ask her about letting him go. But trusting Littlefinger taught him a valuable lesson: there were always more Littlefingers.

Myranda smiled and said, “I’ve also come to shave you. Your beard is looking a bit—” She giggled. “Full.” She swayed on her feet.

“Thank you, but—” Jaime abandoned the bread and reached for his beard, “it keeps me warm.”

She answered with a grin and stepped back to allow him to eat. Jaime bit a few pleasurable portions of the bread and stew while she ogled at him. He ate with his single hand, tearing off bites of bread between his teeth.

“You’re handsome with or without the beard,” she said.

Jaime swallowed and confronted her with his gaze. 

She smiled.

_Fool._ Several responses ran through his mind, but his eyes focused on the ajar door behind her. A possible way out. _Would I hurt a woman to escape?_ Jaime didn’t want to know the answer. Jaime sat while the food settled in his stomach and he lost motivation to eat. Blood left his belly and surged to every muscle, screaming at him to leave. Rays of light stretched and crept over the tray, brightening a metal goblet full of thick ale. He tempted himself to reach for the liquid valor, but scents of strong alcohol halted him.

In front of him, Myranda slipped out of her clothes, revealing pale, skin covered bones. Jaime averted his eyes and looked to the ground. His ears, however, listened to the soft taps of her clothes pooling on the floor. _This is a test._ Naked and covered in goosebumps, she sauntered over to entrap him— smirking while she sat on him and straddled his lap. He continued to ignore her, glaring down at stone. His calm heart beat a steady, sleepy rhythm in his ears— not all matching the inward panic ringing in his mind.

“What is it you like in a woman, M’lord?” she asked, voice alluring and soft.

“Innocence.”

A single laugh burst from Myranda. Jaime stayed still, feeling tired and disliking her weight. His hand stayed by his side until she pulled it up to her breast. He avoided her gaze no longer, chastising her with a glare. He wasn’t interested.

Her eyes widened at the contact. She said, “You have more beautiful eyes than Ramsay.” 

_No, Brienne has beautiful eyes._ She forced Jaime’s hand to squeeze her breast while she bit his lower lip. Myranda leaned forward and kissed him, lacking any and all purity. _If I had two hands, I could strangle her and sneak out._ Jaime willed himself act but a slow, indescribable sludge dulled his senses. He didn’t feel like himself...

A knock on the door interrupted her.

Jaime sat still as Myranda jumped on his lap— breasts bouncing and distracting him. 

At the door stood Ramsay, glaring amidst a subtle and tight smile. “Myranda—” he said, full of tension. The situation dawned on Jaime. _They’re a couple._ Her face continued to stare at Jaime. It didn’t matter if she truly wanted him or not, she wanted to make Ramsay jealous. 

Jaime, wanting to fuel the fire, said, “You have a habit of interrupting. That’s no way to make friends.”

Myranda burst into a sinful smirk and licked her lips. She looked back at Ramsay, who clenched both of his hands. On the verge of exploding, Ramsay said, “Myranda— you were _supposed_ to—”

Jaime eyes fell with gravity and refused to lift up. He heard Myranda’s voice say "I know..." farther and farther away until his mind blackened. Myranda drugged him.

He awoke in a panic, worried they gave him opium. His neck ached in pain. Alone in shadows, heat soaked Jaime in his own sweat. To his relief, he felt no euphoria or withdrawal, but to his horror, someone strapped him shirtless to a wooden cross. _I wanted warmth, but this isn’t it._

“Isn’t this more comfortable than your chambers?” Ramsay asked with a smile, stepping from darkness with a torch. He placed the light against a wall, oozing out water from it stone pores. Wherever they were, Jaime guessed they were close to Winterfell’s hot springs— and it burned. His arms and legs tried thrusting himself towards the man, but constraints around his wrists and ankles prevented him. He stayed constricted onto the cross. Ramsay smiled wider.

“Less than Myranda,” Jaime lied, wanting his words to stab Ramsay.

Ramsay laughed once and tapped the end of a table with his fingers. He reached over and grabbed a wooden stick, clenching it between tenacious fingers. “She’s not yours and neither is Sansa, I’m afraid. Soon, at least, we’ll be married. But you still have something that’s mine.” 

Ramsay, dressed in black leather jerkin, stepped towards Jaime. Close enough to see pink blotches on the man’s face, Jaime scowled. Ramsay forced a wet smile and reached up with his stick— Jaime turned his head away. Ramsay clasped Jaime’s jaw and forced him still. “Open wide,” Ramsay said, jamming the stick against Jaime’s mouth. Splinters of wood bit into his lips and Jaime yielded— allowing the stick to assault his mouth. Ramsay made Jaime retch up warm mush onto the floor. Vomit and acid permeated the room. 

Ramsay sniffed once, unbothered. “I hear you lost a hand. What’s one more?” Ramsay stepped towards Jaime’s stump, which flinched. Ramsay picked up on Jaime’s reaction and showed a large grin. “Or maybe I should fix your broken one! Wouldn’t you like that?”

Jaime remained still while Ramsay’s fingers crawled up his arm, dancing across skin as if he tried to tickle him. “Let’s take off this garish metal,” Ramsay said as he yanked off the golden hand and tightened Jaime’s wrist on the cross. The man’s eyes honed in on Jaime’s scarred flesh in awe. Ramsay tossed the golden hand down and the metal echoed back from the stone walls.

Ramsay said, “I heard you were a great conversationalist, why so quiet? I’ll have you begging for Milk of the Poppy before we’re done with you.”

Jaime laughed. His own bile breath dragged across small splinters in his lips. Poetic justice of receiving such torture _again_ humored Jaime. He wanted to die before taking any opioid again. 

Ramsay, eyebrows furrowed nostrils flared, waited a moment before he punched Jaime’s jaw. The pain was worth it. While Jaime’s cheek swelled and ached, Ramsay feasted on Jaime’s right arm. Pain around his mouth felt pleasurable compared to what Ramsay did to his stump. With sharp tip of a razor, Ramsay penetrated scars and carved into squishing flesh and bone. Ramsay shoveled his way in the stump, and finished by securing Jaime’s golden hand back onto his burning, pulsating arm. Pain remained after Ramsay left. Jaime spent the day and evening alone, falling in and out of nightmares. His dry mouth bled.

_Great wide stretches of canvas  
Signed by a godless name  
Strange bright colors of madness  
Only a fool would frame_

Jaime flinched awake when the door latch opened. Myranda came in with water. Jaime felt too weak to run away, even into his own mind. Yet, he was still tied and hanging on the cross. She approached him and her tender hands poured water into Jaime’s mouth like a baby bird. “Don’t tell Ramsay,” she said as cold water dripped between Jaime’s cracked lips. 

_No, I’ll kill him._

She turned away and gathered a thin blade and a small bowl. He moved his stump at the sight of the blade, and she smirked in response. Myranda walked over, and with gentle hands, proceeded to lather up Jaime’s sore face for shaving. Jaime considered protesting, but the shimmer in the blade cautioned him. She licked her lips and carved away at his face with the edge of the razor— Jaime tensed with each stroke. His beard fell to the floor as she gave him his first clean shave in months.

“My, you _are_ handsome,” she said once she finished. Air felt foreign on his cheeks, chin and neck. Her eyes studied him. Jaime went away inside as her hand snaked around his bare chest. “Do you think I’m pretty?” she asked, dragging the metal razor against his neck. It jumped and snagged between each shortened hair follicle.

“You already know the answer,” Jaime said, inhaling to the point he could feel the sharp razor press into his skin.

Myranda bit her lip and straightened the cutting edge to Jaime’s throat. “More pretty than her?” she asked, twisting the blade against the lump on his neck. 

_No more smart ass answers._ “Yes,” Jaime said, and the razor lifted. _You’re jealous of Sansa._ Myranda threw the blade to the ground and hastily tugged on Jaime’s trousers. She ripped them down and handled his cock, stroking it as Jaime tried bucking away from her. This torture felt worse.

“Ramsay tells me you’re a noble lord from the south. With Sansa newly married— you sound available for a new wife.” She fondled Jaime until his body and mind clashed in conflict. His half hard cock made her impatient and he wanted her to stop— no matter the consequence.

“Not— available,” Jaime struggled to say, closing his eyes. He moved his right arm and pain jolted through him. His crying nerves immediately left him flaccid.

“Another woman?” Myranda asked, dropping his cock. She tried her best not to sound hurt. “More pretty than me?” 

Jaime declined hundreds of woman in his life, and she was no different. Brienne crossed his mind. “A true beauty,” he said. 

The woman’s face changed, losing all fragments of compassion she fabricated. She glared. “Sansa won’t be a beauty with Ramsay’s done with her. I could ask him to do the same things to you. Different hole for you, I suppose but… He loves suffocation. Burns. Broken glass. Fist— well—” she stopped with a smile, losing herself in a daydream.

Jaime started to shake, not for fear of himself, but for Sansa. _I need to save her._

“He isn’t interested in men, but I am,” she said. “You both have many days to look forward to.”


	34. Chapter 34

Jaime wasted away. Every hour, he dribbled out mere drops piss despite his bladder feeling full. Through constant waking and sleeping, he no longer smelled strangling ammonia beneath his feet. Jaime’s tongue shriveled and cracked to the point blood wet his mouth more than his own spit. He could have been in there for days or weeks— it all became a blur to him. 

His body lurched when the metal latch clicked open, and Jaime braced himself for Ramsay or Myranda. Instead, Reek limped under his own shaking torch. Jaime’s dry eyes blinked while the man carried over water, food and clothes to the table— far out of Jaime’s reach, but he swore he could taste it already.

The gentle man trembled over to Jaime with a goblet and rag, and dripped water into Jaime’s mouth. Every drop of water trickled down his throat of sand, absorbing into each surface and leaving him more thirsty than before. Reek dipped his cloth and lifted it between Jaime’s lips. His own cells couldn’t breathe without water, and slowly, their lungs inhaled. The gobblet ran empty, but Jaime’s mind overpoured with thoughts.

_I see the world through different eyes  
I see the world in a different light  
Oh and it changes everything  
Swore I’d put up a good fight  
Wouldn’t rest neither day or night_

Jaime asked in a rough voice, “Please.”

Reek shook, loud enough fabric jostled on his body. He jerked his head side to side— a clumsy refusal. “I can’t help you—”

“I’m not asking you to help me,“ Jaime said, not recognizing his own voice. “Help Sansa. You know what he’s going to do to her.” 

“I— can’t,” Reek said, turning away from Jaime. His clenched hands took away the goblet and rag with him.

Jaime cleared his throat. He sounded older, sicker and— it reminded him of Vargo and his hand. If Jaime needed to plead harder, he would. “You know her. Help her escape, please, I’m not a begging man, but I will for her sake.”

Reek rocked on his feet and shook his head. “There is no escape. Not ever. Theon Greyjoy tried to escape.” The man stared into his own memory. “The master knew. He knows everything. He hunted him. Strapped him to a cross, too. Cut away piece after piece until there was no Theon left.”

Jaime’s vision struggled to see Reek across the room. He closed his eyes and lifted them again, able to see Reek half turned away. Jaime answered, “The best of us have pieces missing.” 

Reek’s eyes flashed over to him. Only for a second.

Jaime licked his dried, cracked and split lips. “People judge me for the bad things I’ve done… and even worse things I never did. But they judge me the same. Maybe I deserve it, even this. I always wonder why I’m here— after such a long, long time. It took me what felt like a lifetime to realize I needed to save my brother. I was right where I needed to be when I saved him and if that’s my only accomplishment— I’ll die a happy man.” Jaime paused. “Sansa called you by your name… Theon.”

Reek boiled over and tears welled in his eyes.

Jaime said, “Don’t let him take a single piece of her.”

Reek shook harder, and his jerking arms thrashed about him. _He’s still Theon._ And Theon left, clambering out of the shadowed prison like a mad man.

_I’ll take that as a no._ Jaime lowered his head onto his sore shoulder. Theon had left the torch hanging on the moist wall, and its flames highlighted food and water— a lifetime away. With each passing minute, the bread and steaming stew stared back. He could taste the white fluff dissolving into sugar in his mouth and the gamey sting of iron. His mind focused on nothing else. He stared until the food and water grew their own sets of eyes— and Jaime hallucinated himself into a rumbling nightmare. 

Jaime jerked awake, and for the first time, his left wrist moved. Out of instinct, he yanked his hand down and free from the hold. Excitement of breaking free from chains overpowered his screaming muscles. His pounding heart and manic eyes turned to his right hand, still fastened to the cross. Jaime dug his teeth deep into his lip as he pulled down his right stump— squeezing out of his entrapped golden hand. The metal hole spit out his wounded, blistering stump. Clear, viscous liquid oozed and trickled down his arm.

_I don’t have time._ Jaime ignored his injury and rushed to free his ankles. _How am I this lucky?_ He almost twisted one of his ankles in the process, and he stumbled off of the cross— naked and flat on the stone ground. Jaime crawled past his old clothes, drenched in piss, and over to the table, where he gulped water and stuffed his face with food. He batted away at scurrying mice around him. It didn’t matter if Ramsay forced him to vomit it all up again, Jaime needed every calorie. He breathed deeper, although his heart refused to slow. A new sound. Jaime’s ears, still ringing with his own murmurs and screams, heard a sound from outside. Jaime narrowed his eyes and stumbled past the dripping, black walls. His sweating hand reached for the frigid metal handle of the door— and it opened. Jaime’s eyes widened at the thought of escape, but a fresh gust of cold wind against his perspiring skin demanded protection. Through shivers, struggled to dress himself with clothes Theon had left behind: tunic, trousers, boots and fur coat.

Without thinking or taking time to catch his own shuddering breath, Jaime exited the room and entered a long, dark hallway. A bright, white light was at the end, and through squinting, Jaime noticed it was an open door. Jaime shivered at the thought— and then— he remembered. _”There is no escape. He knew. He knows everything. He hunted—”_ Jaime’s eyes widened and he looked around him. Ramsay wanted Jaime to fall for easy bait, just as Theon described. Jaime adapted and turned around, soon reaching for a closed door, and finding it locked. 

With no time to waste, Jaime searched for anything small enough to pick a lock. In the cross, a small nail resisted Jaime’s pulling. He reached for his fallen golden hand, and used an opening between metal fingers to pry the nail up. Out came a thin, long and sharp point.

Jaime went to work, picking the lock like a one handed fool until it clattered open. His heart raced and he covered his head with a hood, entering an open deck with stairs. Sweat froze against his sweltering skin as he met winter air. He ascended stairs and walked along an upper deck, wood creaking with each step. Jaime kept his head down and eyes level— brushing past Bolton guards, none the wiser. _Does anyone even recognize me?_ The rarity became a distinct advantage, and with each second of ignorance, Jaime’s goal became clearer. He wasn’t going to escape— unless he had Sansa.

After several minutes of walking and avoiding soldiers, Jaime stumbled upon a path to the main castle. Tingling muscles, ready for fight or flight, pushed Jaime forward as he ducked and hid within darkened corners. From across a small courtyard, Jaime’s eyes caught Sansa’s unmistakable red hair, twisted into smooth braids. _No longer brunette._ Jaime’s feet carried him faster, as he walked past servants dragging a large basket full of steaming, fresh bread. Jaime ignored the roasted, crusted aroma and pressed forward. She walked inside the castle and Jaime followed well behind, slinking from wall to wall. From above, wax dripped, fell and solidified on his shoulders. A maid followed Sansa into a room, and exited within a few seconds. As she turned, Jaime flew to the door, lunging himself inside Sansa’s chambers while he closed the door. 

Sansa’s dark robe and patterned dress whirled at the sound of him. Her jaw jetted forward and she stomped closer to him. “Get… out...” she said, refusing to address him by name. 

_Seven Hells, she’s pissed._ Jaime shook his head and motioned to the door. “We need to go— now.” Jaime said, holding out his hand for her to grab.

Sansa scrunched her face and turned away. With slow steps, silent as a bird, she walked to the edge of her bed and her fingers clenched the quilt. “This is my home,” she said, staring at her bed.

“Not anymore.”

“I can outmaneuver them,” Sansa said, breathing more hope than her last statement.

“Now’s the time to start.” Jaime took a step forward. Her window had been tied shut. _They know she may escape._

Sansa continued gazing at her dream of safety, eyes fixed to an old, gray quilt. She shook her head in small bursts. “Littlefinger said—”

“And where is Littlefinger?” Jaime said, willing to argue with her more than ever before. “Nowhere while Ramsay does his worst. Torture. Rape. Murder.”

“Theon deserves it.”

“Do I?” Jaime asked.

Sansa looked over shoulder at Jaime, and when he revealed his blistering, leaking stump, she winced and averted her eyes away.

“You can think what you want about me. You don’t deserve it,” he said. Jaime’s eyes searched around him for answers, evidence or proof she wasn’t safe. Wood, higher than her, stacked in a corner. On an elegant, chiseled dresser, she had several large pitchers of water and a wicker basket full of pastries. Food, shelter, warmth— was all a lie, and he couldn’t convince her otherwise. Jaime waited while Sansa’s back heaved through tense breaths. He had failed her... before. He allowed himself to be manipulated by his own father and marry a child bride. But now, Jaime refused to let it happen again. She’d be starved, tortured, raped— _I can’t leave without her._

“I deserve to have my own choice— to stay,” she said, with shaking voice. She turned to hide her face and to hide the truth. 

Jaime chewed the inside of his cheek. He reached for one of the metal pitchers and water sloshed as he picked it up. “And I’ve made mine,” Jaime said. He lifted the pitcher, stepped forward and struck Sansa across the head. Water splashed on his tunic while Sansa fell to the floor with a thud. Her quilt bunched together as if she still clenched it. Jaime stretched down to hoist her onto his shoulder. His aching stump and arm bound her to him. Jaime never truly planned for anything, and holding an unconscious Sansa weighed on his mind. But the ends justified the means. 

Water dripped onto the floor as Jaime peeked through a cracked door. With adaption on his side, Jaime rushed through silent halls and stairs. Sansa groaned. He commanded his rusting legs to move faster, and he climbed the two of them onto a deck. His muscles suffocated while cold bit his red face. Jaime hurried along the silent walkway littered with arrows until he turned a corner— Myranda and Theon stood in front of him. Jaime stopped, almost tipping over as Sansa's weight pulled him forward. His eyes could only see Myranda's drawn bow, string creaking as she pulled and pointed it… at him.

Myranda smiled. “There you are, M’lord. I thought you might be smart enough to try a different path. I knew we should have waited longer but— Ramsay wanted to play a game before the wedding tonight.”

Sansa struggled herself free, and Jaime’s knees buckled. She thumped to the wooden deck and glared up through her hand, holding a swollen circle on her temple.

“Let me escort her back to her chamber,” Myranda said, smiling and interrupting Jaime and Sansa’s locked eyes. Myranda moved her aim to the left, threatening Sansa— not Jaime.

“Go with her. Please," Theon said.

“No—” Jaime said. “I know what he’ll do to her. She has her whole life ahead of her, she can’t die here.” _She is going to be Queen in the North, she can’t stay here._

“Die?” Myranda sent a pitiful grin and her bow bent down to the deck. “Who said anything about dying? She can’t die, her father was Warden of the North. Ramsey needs her.” 

Jaime looked to Sansa, who sat still while shallow breaths escaped her open mouth. 

Myranda continued, “Well, I suppose he doesn’t need all of her. Just the parts he’ll use to make his heir, until she’s given him a boy or two and he’s finished using them.” Sansa's eyes welled and widened. “Then—” Myranda said as she pulled the string of the bow taut, aiming at Sansa, “he’s got incredible plans for those parts.”

Jaime stepped towards Sansa, stretching out his arms and chest. 

Myranda immediately targeted him instead. Jaime stopped— knowing full well she would kill him. She smiled and stepped to the left, returning to her original target: Sansa. Myranda asked, “So— shall we wait for him to come back or should we begin now?”

Sansa remained still, trembling as she held herself. Jaime waited.

“You’re leaving it to me?” Myranda said, “Good. Let’s begin.” Her delicate fingers pulled back on the string as her face turned evil. 

Jaime leapt forward as her fingers snapped. Myranda ordered him to stop. The pain in Jaime’s stump tricked him into thinking he was hit— and he didn’t realize what had happened until Myranda’s screams fell quieter and quieter until a final and solitary whimper. 

Hovering over Sansa, Jaime looked up. She was gone. Jaime stumbled to his feet, Sansa followed, and the three of them peered over the edge of the deck to see Myranda squashed on the stone below.

Sansa hyperventilated, Theon panicked and Jaime hushed. One of Theon's disfigured hands reached for Sansa, yanking her with him.

“No, no, no, Theon,” Sansa said, pulling back her two hands. “I should— throw you off the wall for what you did to my brothers.”

Theon shook with urgency and said, “I wronged Robb and captured Winterfell, yes— but I didn’t kill Bran and Rickon.”

“What?” Sansa asked. Her breaths deepened.

“They were farm boys—”

“Where are they?” Sansa asked.

“I don’t kn—”

“Sorry to end this wonderful reunion," Jaime said, "Can we fucking get out of here?”

While shaking, Theon nodded and pulled again on Sansa, who accepted him. The three of them rushed up to the battlement overlooking endless snow, with no ladder and no nearby town. Jaime’s heart sank and he turned to explore elsewhere.

“No, there’s no time,” Theon said, reaching out for Jaime. Sansa and Theon lifted themselves against the wind and onto low, stone crenels. 

Jaime lagged behind and shook his head and said, “You saw what just happened to her—” 

“Trust me,” Theon said. Hounds barked in the distance. He had no choice but to trust him. Jaime reached out with his stump, and Theon supported Jaime’s arm as he climbed into a crenel. A breeze blanketed over Jaime’s shaved cheeks, chin and neck. Each stub of his hair tightened in frigid air. His chest burned under dampened fabric. His heart raced, and stopped, while Theon continued to hold Jaime’s arm and Sansa’s hand. And they jumped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unconventional Jaime strikes again. In case anyone is curious, Jaime is known to act without thinking, to act for the greater good, and we all know he makes poor choices. Sansa hasn't married Ramsay yet, so her character is still under Littlefinger's spell to "behave". As a writer, I decided to save Sansa the grief of Ramsay. Repercussions from this chapter continue throughout the story.


	35. Chapter 35

Snow dragged on their feet. Jaime’s weight sank into it— through layers of powder, frozen clumps and ice, worse than sand. Their prints etched a permanent path behind them… and it wouldn’t take long for Bolton’s men to find them. Still, they ran for their lives and diverted their path to patches of pines. Fresh, sharp smells of sap coated the insides of Jaime’s heaving lungs as he ran. Every twig snap and labored breath filled Jaime’s ears like a disjointed melody. 

“We have to cross here,” Theon said as they came up to the river. Water flowed between ledges of stone and perpetual snow.

Jaime’s wet and cold tunic clung to his chest, making it harder to breathe. “We’ll die within minutes in freezing water—” Jaime failed to catch his breath. “Cross on rocks, logs— anything else.”

Sansa quivered, nodded and pulled Theon to follow her. Sansa led them along the bank of the river until she found a crossing: large snow covered boulders. 

Theon stepped first, testing the stability of each stone with a trembling foot. Sansa tailed close behind and reached for Theon’s hand. Jaime, meanwhile, struggled with weak and long legs that fooled his body. _Gods, I am really old._ One of the last stones slipped under his feet, and he tripped forward to certain death— but Sansa and Theon caught him and pulled him onto safe snow.

Together, they climbed a hill, slowing with each progressive step. Jaime lagged behind.

“Over here,” Theon said, motioning towards a large, fallen tree. Its roots towered over like a small cave, and the three of them huddled underneath. They each caught their breath until hounds echoed through the forest. Their breathing stopped. Theon flinched and begged Jaime and Sansa to stay put, and with reluctance, they complied. The brave man left them as Jaime tried his best to quiet the worried girl with shhs. Sansa didn’t ask for any of this, and if he needed to die fighting for her freedom… _That’s what knights do._

The mournful and loud howls of the hounds increased in strength and numbers, in addition to horses and men yelling. _They found Theon._ Jaime knew the power of a dog’s nose, and if he wasn’t half frozen to death, he would have tried outrunning the four legged monsters. But it was no use. The mob discovered them.

With strength of dragons, the hounds pulled their way to Sansa and Jaime— their ice cold noses pressing into them. 

One of the saddled men smirked. He said to Theon, “I can’t wait to see what parts Ramsay cuts off you this time.” The soldier looked at Jaime next. “The both of you.”

Men stepped forward and their punches hurt as much as the biting cold air. Sansa resisted their pulls, and then the men drew their swords and looked right. 

A Bolton soldier said, “It’s a bloody woman—” 

And the sweet sound of a sword ripping through his flesh reached Jaime’s ears along with a battle cry. Chaos ensued, and Jaime swore he saw his dream come to life: Brienne. _The Stranger’s already taken me._ Jaime blinked while Sansa trembled against him under the tree’s roots. Hearing the same shout again, Jaime knew his mind played no tricks on him. It _was_ Brienne.

Jaime abandoned Sansa and searched the ground for something— anything to help. A rock. A sword. A snowball. He needed to help.

A blade peeked through the snow and Jaime grasped the warm pommel. Brienne slammed someone into the ground. As Jaime walked over, an enemy thrust his longsword at him. He guarded himself— barely able to fend or cover from raining steel. _Thank the Gods I trained._ But Jaime tired faster than he hoped, and as he drew in his last breath, another sword penetrated through the guard’s chest. Behind the dying guard stood Theon. 

Jaime dropped his sword, sensing only numbness coarse through his bare fingers. _I’ll lose my hand. My other hand._ Brienne’s shout brought him out of his thoughts, and she stood against a charging soldier on a horse. It didn’t matter, as her height allowed her to slice through him like butter. All Bolton men were slain, soaking the snow in red.

Brienne stared at Jaime with her mouth agape, as if she saw a ghost. Jaime averted his eyes. Shame haunted him. Brienne turned her focus to Sansa, who stumbled out into the mess. Serious and determined, Brienne marched forward with chin held high and laid her sword down beyond her bent knee. 

Brienne said, “Lady Sansa, I offer my services once again. I will shield your back and keep your council and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.”

Sansa looked to Theon. He nodded. Sansa recited words, with Podrick’s help. Age caught up with Podrick, having grown since Jaime last saw him. A small, budding teenager. Jaime lived what felt like a million lifetimes in the past and had the scars to show for it. Brienne, however, looked angelic. Straight edges outlined the honor in Brienne’s face, even though Sansa fumbled through the words. Surrounded by snow, Brienne appeared paler— more porcelain and less freckled.

“Thank you, Ser,” Sansa said, and Brienne winced. 

“I’m not a knight, My Lady, but I will protect you as much,” Brienne said as she stood, towering over everyone. Her eyes met Jaime’s until she instructed her squire to ready the horses. 

She stepped towards Jaime, unafraid, and stared at him. “You’re here,” she said.

 _Guileless woman._ Too cold to laugh or banter, Jaime answered, “I am.”

“My Lady,” Podrick said, “your horse is ready.”

Jaime couldn’t identify the emotion that washed over her face, she frowned, and it disappeared in an instant. Brienne pivoted away, and Podrick led horses to each person. 

Podrick helped Jaime’s aching, dying body in the saddle. Jaime’s back slumped and muscles shivered as he grew colder, colder and colder. Hooves underneath him followed the herd without direction, and Jaime let go of the reins to embrace himself. His muscles only knew how to shiver. They rode on, walking for an obscene amount of time until the slow rocking motion of the horse lulled Jaime into a sleep.

He dreamed his horse stopped, but his body kept moving. He fell, sinking towards the white snow until The Warrior caught him. Dressed in cobalt armor, The Warrior bore Jaime’s weight, and carried him off through the snow. Jaime never imagined meeting the Gods, and here one was: hauling him to meet his death. The world darkened, and Jaime expected cold hands to pull him into the shadows, but warm hands clasped him instead. Jaime dreamed he opened his eyes to see The Stranger, but The Mother stared back at him. She cradled him and set him down on a gentle cloud. With mercy, she kept him safe and peeled off the wet, cold layers on his skin. Jaime felt his right hand better than his left, and reached out for her. The Mother turned away— and then leaned forward, kissing his cheek. The softness of her lips calmed him like a harmonious hymn. She was The Maiden all along, and Jaime drifted into darkness while the moon crawled up the horizon. 

He awoke smothered between two cows and dressed in only his smallclothes. Pungent smells of barn permeated through him, and his eyes adjusted to the dim light. Jaime looked down to see his stump wrapped and bandaged. His sudden movements spooked one of the cows, and she stood, leaving Jaime to roll onto warm pile of straw with a grunt. The cow left, taking her warmth with her, and Podrick walked over to him. The squire dressed him in his clothes, now dry. 

Jaime’s head throbbed. “Where is she?”

Podrick held back a smile, paused and then moved to the side. He turned back and gestured further into the large barn. Jaime strained to see Brienne, axing away at logs like a machine.

“Do you— mean— Lady Sansa?” Podrick asked as he stumbled on his words. 

Jaime shook his head. _I forgot about Sansa, for a moment._

Podrick smirked and reached for Jaime’s cloak.

The smirk bothered Jaime. “What?” Jaime asked. The smirk meant something, and he had no patience for games. 

“I— You—”

Jaime intensified his glare at him. 

Podrick whispered, “You said My Lady’s name… many times, when you were as—”

“I did no such thing.” Jaime batted away Podrick’s hand. Jaime finished dressing himself and sought out the fire. Sansa eyed him once and avoided him thereafter. Blue and purple stained her forehead. _Small price to pay for your freedom._ Jaime reached for a cup of liquid, thankful it held water, and gulped it down. Jaime picked out three hard morsels of cheese while Sansa and Podrick sat in awkward silence. An iron pot of water and bones hung above the fire. It started boiling.

Red and drenched in sweat, Brienne walked over with logs. Jaime quaked.

“You make a habit of hurting women,” Brienne said. 

_Sansa told you? Wonderful._

Brienne stood across the fire and tried to shame Jaime with a stern scowl. She succeeded.

Jaime managed a shrug. “Only the women I care about.” 

Brienne narrowed her eyes further. 

Jaime inhaled as Podrick threw a log in the fire. _Which women are you talking about? Sansa? Or you?_ Podrick took one look at Brienne and retreated. _Even he knows you’re angry._ Jaime refused to tolerate such silence or scowls. “I gave up my honor to save her. And I’d do it again. Wouldn’t you?” Jaime asked.

Sansa stared at him with arms crossed and said, “You are no true knight.”

Jaime scoffed. “You thought of me as a true knight?” Sansa’s face turned to stone. Jaime continued, “I left the Kingsguard, remember? You don’t remember because I was kind to you. You said it yourself. If you want to go back to that monster, you’re more than welcome to.”

“No,” Brienne said, growing more angry, “No, you’re not safe there, Lady Sansa.”

“I know that. All of you. I know that. I haven’t been safe anywhere since _your_ family attacked mine. Killed my father. Killed my mother. Killed my brother,” Sansa’s words bled with emotion.

Vigorous water boiled at the center of the fire. In a similar rage, Jaime said, “And _I_ saved you.”

Having tolerated enough, Sansa stormed off. 

Brienne sighed and raised the cast iron with leather bound to her hands while she watched Sansa from a distance. Her jaw jetted out as if she might bite anyone brave enough to cross her.

Stuck in a brooding face, Jaime stared at the fire. “She has no idea the things I’ve done to save her.” 

“She knows you hit her,” Brienne said. She continued to glare at him after their eyes met. He could see it in her face: she judged him.

Jaime clenched his hand into a fist and leaned forward. “She refused to go. I hit her to save her from rape.” His voice grew more quiet and angry, “I married you to save you from rape.” 

Unimpressed, Brienne sat on a large log. “You chose to do both of those, not me, not her.”

Jaime shook his head and ground his jaw. She was right. But it didn’t change his mind. “And I’d choose it all again, just like I chose you,” he said.

A nameless pause fell between them and Brienne looked away. Jaime assumed the worst. Brienne hated him for what he did. He hated himself more. She regretted him. A drug addict. A murderer. Kingslayer.

_Love and hate  
How much more are we supposed to tolerate  
Can’t you see there’s more to me than my mistakes  
Sometimes I get this feeling  
Makes me hesitate_

“You stayed for her?” Brienne asked.

Suspicious of her interpretation, he answered, “While you gallivanted with your squire, she showed up at your campsite— with Littlefinger.”

“You left with them,” she said with dry anger as she set down the cast iron on the barn ground.

“I didn’t have much of a choice. I’ve been with her ever since. Thank you for your concern, Brienne, I only _almost_ lost my other hand.” 

Brienne bit her lower lip and frowned as she watched the water slow its boil. She relaxed and brought her arm up to wipe away the sweat on her forehead. Strands of hair stuck to her skin and distracted him. Despite their arguing and poor reunion, he still wanted her— even if she didn’t want him. He played this unrequited game before, he could play it again.

Brienne recalled her experience. “I met her, at an inn. I didn’t know they held you as well. She was never safe with that man. But she chose to stay with him, and I followed them here. I’ll never trust the Boltons either.”

Jaime nodded. “She probably trusts you more than me.”

“She knows I found her sister.”

“You did?”

“I lost her, and I spent three days looking for her,” she said. Jaime frowned, and Brienne said, “She was with a man. Podrick says he was the Hound.”

“The Mountain’s brother? I don’t blame you for not fighting him. I watched his brother crush a man’s skull.”

“I killed him.”

 _Oh._ His lips tugged into a smile. “Of course you did.”

She smiled before turning serious. Brienne served warm broth into bowls with wooden spoons. She explained their situation. Bolton men still looked for them, so they bought silence instead, with nice Lannister coin Jaime provided her long, long ago. _You’re welcome, all of you._ He accepted his bowl from Brienne, who handed over his bowl with both hands. Warm hands. Gods, Jaime missed her. She served Sansa, Podrick and sat to eat her own. 

“Where’s Theon?” Jaime asked.

Podrick answered, “Gone. Home to his sister.”

Jaime gulped his soup down— saltless and gamey. Delicious. He wanted to ask for more, but Brienne stared daggers at Podrick, who drank in loud slurps.

“And we’re…?” Jaime asked.

Brienne snapped her focus away from Podrick and said, “Going North, to find Sansa’s brother at Castle Black. He’s Lord Commander. It will take us a couple months at best, considering the weather and hiding.”

Jaime smirked and sat himself closer to the fire. More comfortable in his once foreign clothes, he leaned back against the log. “Well,” Jaime said, “Lucky for you, I have many ideas how to keep us warm.”


	36. Chapter 36

Jaime pouted throughout the night, though no one noticed. Brienne shooed him away several times and almost broke his neck when he opened the door to go outside and piss. 

“I look like a Northerner with one less hand,” Jaime said.

Brienne didn’t laugh. She didn’t sleep with him or next to him either, much to his disappointment.

The sun returned the next day, and Brienne decided it was time to travel. As a pack of four, they set off. Jaime waved bye to the cows. During the ride, his bandage unraveled and revealed scabbed, crusted skin. Jaime tucked the healing appendage in his cloak and hoped for a comfortable evening. 

With luck on their side, they found another abandoned cabin for the night. Compared to the snowy wind, the cabin felt like a luxurious resort. Old, creaking wood surrounded them, and with the sun setting, they wouldn’t be able to see a thing. Firelight brought the cabin’s soul back to life. Layers of dust and dirt danced and floated through the air. 

Jaime insisted Brienne change his bandage after they settled in. She refused, at first, but agreed when he bit his lip. He curled his fingers into a tight ball when she approached him next to the fire. Their other two companions rummaged through odds and ends across the far side of the cabin— and it left Jaime and Brienne with a small sense of privacy.

She removed his bandage, inspected his wound without wincing, and re-wrapped his stump. Her eyes lifted to look at him. She continued to stare for a few seconds.

In a quiet voice, Jaime asked a question he already knew the answer to. “Do you like my face, Brienne?”

She said nothing and looked away, despite having ogled over him. Power went to Jaime’s head for a moment, and he appreciated their close proximity. Now he stared. Her freckles remained, and she adorned a few new, uneven scars. Her pale eyelashes did nothing to support her beautiful eyes, but he desired their attention over everything. Gods, he wanted to kiss her, fuck her. Nothing changed.

_Touching your face  
Invading your space  
They’re a part of the list  
Things that I miss_

Jaime parted his lips and looked beyond her. Podrick and Sansa shook out several blankets, and Jaime’s heart stopped when Podrick glanced over once. Jaime sighed and said, “Well, stop staring. They’ll catch on.”

“To what?” Brienne asked.

“Us.”

“Us?”

“Unless you’ve already told them—” Jaime knew she hadn’t. He held back a grin. He loved her bashful and embarrassed reactions.

“Gods, no,” Brienne said. The idea repulsed her more than anything. She tied the bandage around his wrist while his fist tightened. She continued, “I thought—”

“Whatever you _thought_ , you thought wrong. You overthink too much and judge too quickly. If we can only have a moment alone—”

“No.” She forced herself to stand. As she walked away, Jaime called out her name and she ignored him.

_Well, fuck._ Jaime clenched his jaw and glared at the fire. 

Everyone spent the rest of the evening exploring the abandoned cabin. Jaime chatted with Podrick while Sansa and Brienne either listened or tuned them out. Together, Podrick and Jaime mused a family once lived there, but with the winter, wars and Wildlings, they either perished or abandoned their home. “Wildlings”, a derogatory term in modern times, preferred the appropriate name: Free Folk. Jaime played at a festival for the Free Folk once, and when they set several cars on fire, he swore he would never return again. _I should stop swearing vows._

“What’s for supper?” Jaime asked while his stomach grumbled.

“There is no supper,” Sansa said, glaring as if Jaime caused their problems. “Why do you think we’re looking through their belongings?”

Jaime sneered, ready to argue, but Podrick said, “We hunt along the way. There won’t be many villages on the way to Castle Black, so we have to find our own food.”

The wise boy was right, and with nothing but water to fill their bellies, all of them prepared for sleep. Brienne gave Jaime a stern glare when he placed his bedroll near hers. He knew her well enough to retreat and set his roll near Podrick instead. _Stubborn woman._

A stubborn commander, too, Brienne pushed them to their limits. They traveled through the woods where even trees and bushes couldn’t stop the wind. It snowed sideways, and their impatient horses spooked every other step. They stopped for a break mid-day at another abandoned cabin, almost identical to the previous one. While it had open stables, it lacked everything except hay, walls, and a roof. No door. Brienne insisted they only stay for a moment, stretch out their muscles and warm up without windchill. But when they mounted to ride again, Sansa’s mare refused to leave. Her hose dug her hooves into the snow. Jaime watched with a smile as Brienne tried to best the horse by yanking on reins or pushing the horse’s rear. Sansa’s mare wanted to stay and no human would change her mind. Brienne met her match.

Brienne’s eyebrows contorted in a cute way when frustrated, and even so, she tried to appear calm when she changed her mind to stay. At least the horses would get a full meal, but Jaime envied them. Hunger clouded his mind.

“I’ll hunt now,” Brienne said, holding the pommel of her sword before checking the bow set in the saddle. Podrick, who helped Sansa into the cabin, changed direction and walked back towards Brienne and her horse. Jaime seized the opportunity and scrambled towards her. 

“I’ll go with you. Pod— keep Sansa safe.” _Gods, I sound... desperate._

Brienne paused, staring at the ground as she contemplated what to say. Awkward and considerate, Podrick looked to Brienne for her answer. She nodded once.

On their horses, alone, they set off for thick woods. Less snow allowed him to walk their horses alongside each other. Her bay mare grew a thick, beautiful coat. Jaime looked at Brienne, who warped her face into a permanent scowl. He smiled.

Brienne broke the silence and asked, “Why are you here? You were— so close to leaving.”

Jaime shrugged. “Why? I can’t enjoy an extended holiday? This is the cheapest holiday I’ve ever been on. I’ve also married, twice. Lost a hand. Became a knight. Became a lord. I’ll leave when I damn well choose.”

Brienne’s jaw clenched and her eyes peered around until they landed on Jaime. “You’re going the wrong direction,” she said.

She expected him to leave. He no longer wanted to tie himself to any expectations, except her. Jaime sat straight in his saddle when he felt Brienne’s eyes linger on him. He wanted to look noble for her— _be_ noble for her. Jaime let his horse lead, stepping over logs while he searched the area for any sign of wildlife. He saw nothing but snow, boulders and pines. After a pause, Jaime said, “Sansa is going the right direction. I may not be a real knight, but an oath is an oath. I couldn’t leave when Sansa just— showed up.” 

Brienne’s scowl deepened before she relaxed and said, “I thank you, Lor— Ser Jaime.”

“Just Jaime, please,” he said, and gravity of his words almost made him shake. “Or husband, if it pleases you.” 

She stared at him for a moment and averted away. She didn’t trust him, and he didn’t blame her. He was a cruel, selfish man, and he only wanted to stay for his conscience and her. She suffered from his choices all the same. 

Jaime frowned and chewed the inside of his cheek. _I’m sorry._ “I didn’t mean— to leave you. I wish I hadn’t,” he said, struggling to be vulnerable to admit an apology.

“We’ve had to make difficult choices. If you had stayed for me to come back, Sansa might still be with the Boltons now. They’d never let us take her alive.”

Jaime kept quiet. _Practical as ever._ Along her travels, Brienne became wiser. Jaime admired her more because of it. No one understood him as well as her, and despite her judgement and determination, she reserved compassion. She brought out the best and worst in him: innocence and sin, pride and doubt, altruism and greed. _I’d follow her into the Seven Hells._

They tied their horses, dismounted and hid in a thicket of bushes near the top of a hill. Nature encroached over them with long, tenacious fingers. Soil, still frozen from chill, squished and crunched under their feet as they crouched. Jaime’s stomach smelled earthy minerals and tempted him enough to almost take a bite. Hunger was a terrible thing. Brienne prepared the bow and arrow, kneeling and peering through needles. Behind, Jaime fixated on her. She wore the same armor he gifted her, and it frustrated him he couldn't rip it off. Random holes littered her robe skirt. Jaime sighed. Brienne focused ahead while she signaled him to come forward with her left hand. Jaime followed, leaning closer in order to see her point of view. She stiffened, and his effect on her excited him. Jaime bit his lip, pouring his mind’s attention on her instead of the task at hand. Her hair smoothed back, and hovering behind her, he noticed a sparseness of freckles on her neck. Brienne’s scent drifted into his lungs and he swore he could taste her. Without the will to hold back, Jaime tipped forward and kissed behind her ear.

Her hand raced to her sword pommel and she whispered, “We should be hunting.”

Warmer than he expected, he tasted salt. He reached for the skirt of her robe and clenched hard. _She’s romantic. Be romantic._ With his lips against her skin, Jaime said, “I am hunting.”

After a pause, Brienne clasped over his hand through her thick leather gloves. Relief spread over, relaxing every part of him, except his grumbling stomach. He breathed warm air down her neck. She gripped him harder. Jaime brought his mouth over her chilled ear and whispered, “Don’t let me distract you.” _Let me._ He smiled against her ear as her eyes closed. His effect over her empowered him to do more. Months had passed since he last tasted her, and it felt like no time passed at all. The fog of hunger and desire consumed him, and he whispered something he never meant to admit, “I stayed for you.”

She turned her head to face him, question him and judge him. Intensity of her eyes stabbed through him, and the truth confronted Jaime: he wanted to spend the rest of his life with this woman. Through danger, hunger or disaster, he would choose it all over a life of lonely comfort without her. To a man who hated plans, the realization chilled him more than the rising winds. Brienne’s eyes softened. _I don’t even belong here, but I belong with you._

A loud, horrid honk scared them. Outside the bush waddled a large winter goose. Brienne let go of Jaime’s hand, lifted her bow in shaky silence, drew and released the arrow. The clumsy kill didn’t matter, and neither did the interrupted moment. Nothing could spoil how Jaime felt: perfect.


	37. Chapter 37

They ate their feast after Podrick slaughtered, butchered and roasted the goose. Everyone saved bones to make stock soup while the horses ate their hay with vigor in the stables. Despite the wind that crept through the open door, they stayed warm and comfortable. Jaime and Brienne stole smiles across the fire. He regretted leaving so soon after catching the goose, but they were hungry. Forgetting hunger was easy on a full stomach. 

Still, Jaime failed to push Brienne out of his mind. Beautiful to him, he memorized each timid smile and every careful glimpse. That night, Jaime set his bedroll next to Brienne’s, and she allowed him. Jaime resented the space between them and reached out his left hand. To his surprise, Brienne’s hand met his under their blankets. Embers provided little light for him to see her, but he savored every soft patch and coarse edge of her hand. After a while, she returned caresses— innocent touches, full of mutual, tranquil emotion. His shoulder, chest and hip ached and begged for him to move, but Jaime refused. Touching slowed as they fell asleep. 

_I could make it better  
I could hold you tighter  
Cause through the morning  
Oh you’re the light  
And I almost lost you  
But I can’t forget you  
Cause you were the reason that I survived_

His body screamed when Brienne snatched her hand away. Light filtered through the old wood ceiling and Jaime blinked himself awake. They slept all night holding hands, and he would pay for it. He groaned and complained as he sat up. A frowning Pod rushed over to help. Jaime refused him.

Upon Sansa’s suggestion, they packed all leftover hay for the horses and set off on their way. The calm day adorned a white sky empty of wind. Podrick spotted six more geese and successfully hunted four of them. Their luck ran out with shelter, and they spent the night under jutting ledges of stone. Sansa tucked her way into the deepest, warmest corner for the night, followed by Brienne, Jaime and Podrick. The young man was a much better conversationalist than either woman, until Brienne ordered them to stay quiet for the night. 

Podrick paired well with Brienne. _See? Now you have the best squire in Westeros._ Efficient, Pod hardly complained and possessed a rare humble nature. Podrick hunted well, but his clumsy fighting needed work. Brienne and Podrick spent an hour or two every day practicing sword fighting. Jaime and Sansa watched them spar. Well, Jaime eyed Brienne.

“Any— tips— My Lord? On my— form?” Podrick asked, half out of breath and half nervous.

“I don’t think I have enough time to tell you what to improve on,” Jaime said, adding a look of pity. 

Podrick’s lips thinned to a tight, forced smile while Brienne and Sansa burst into chuckles. One privilege of being a lord over a squire was that a squire never asked the same question twice. Jaime kept the teasing to a minimum, and the two lads talked and got along well. Whenever alone, Jaime spent his time thinking of music, chords or lyrics.

Their luck slowly ran out, as each night yielded inhabited shelters or empty half-caves— only warm enough for survival. No one wanted to risk finding a Bolton supporter, so they avoided people at all costs. Sansa tried to keep herself busy by repairing clothing: something no one else knew how to do well. Podrick hunted and Jaime eagerly joined him to escape Sansa’s frigid stares. A week passed with worsening weather and dwindling food supply. Everyone grew frustrated, including the damn horses.

But they caught their break: a large and dark farmhouse. Everyone’s yearning for a warm night’s rest limited their debates about risk. Podrick investigated and signaled, to everyone’s relief, it was empty. Inside, its creaking wooden floors laid bare from the hands of the Free Folk— they left almost nothing. The four of them chewed on the last bit of dried meat while the horses dined on stale hay in the stables. _Thank the Gods the Free Folk leave the hay for the rest of us._

Podrick gathered bow and arrows to hunt, but Brienne interrupted him. Amidst quiet words, they talked. Jaime heard nothing and continued to warm his hand over their new fire. 

Brienne stepped with earnest towards Jaime and asked, “Will you hunt with me, Ser Jaime?” 

Jaime clambered up with a desperate nod. 

Brienne held back a smile. Now serious, she gathered her items and exited the farmhouse. Snow crunched under them, leaving heavy footprints as they walked out to the barn. Both of them ignored the biting cold.

Jaime’s mind raced with flirty, raunchy and suggestive lines that he couldn’t bear to say aloud. Jaime focused on Brienne while they walked, now alone, and she appeared calm as ever, as if she grew up in The North. He never would have guessed she grew up in the warm Stormlands. Jaime glanced over to the horizon, filled with dark, brewing clouds threatening to steal the sun and its warmth. Jaime had no interest in hunting animals. His hand stretched and clenched as they walked to the stables.

Horses chewed their hay and ignored Brienne, who saddled her mare. Jaime rolled his eyes. _What do you think we’re doing?_ With a lick of his lips and time to improvise, he turned to the saddle room: small, dark and coated in a thin layer of dirt. Jaime nodded to himself.

Brienne stepped in and asked, “Why are you waiting?” She narrowed her eyes at him. 

Confronted by her attitude, Jaime tightened his jaw and opened his mouth to speak— but he failed to think of the right words. She either didn’t understand his intentions or felt too shy to refuse him. _Am I misreading her?_ Either possibility angered him. “Are you asking me to wait longer?” Jaime asked. _I can only be patient for so long._

Brienne’s eyes studied his face for an answer she didn’t know. “For what?”

Gods, she really was daft. Jaime inhaled a tense, deep breath and held it. Out through his nose, air slowly escaped. He stepped closer and Brienne’s body straightened. She avoided his gaze and looked out through the door at the open field of snow. Jaime wanted to reach for her face, but he found her hand instead. Through the thick gloves, he squeezed her and whispered, “For all the times we wished we had.”

She clenched her eyes closed. Brienne’s strong hand weakened in his, but she continued to let him hold her. She stuttered through a mess of words while she focused on the floor. “I— It—” she paused, “You—”

“If I’ve learned anything about myself,” Jaime said, “it’s that I still want you— even if you don’t want me.” 

Brienne’s eyes snapped to meet his, as if he offended her. As if she didn’t believe him. As if she was on the verge of spilling out some unknown truth. 

Jaime locked eyes with her and gripped her hand harder. He continued, “Just say the word, whatever you want. You want a real marriage, done. You want me to ask your father, I will. If you don’t want this crippled, old outcast then tell me to leave.” 

Brienne wrinkled into an ugly frown as her lips quivered. He thought he knew her feelings, and now he wasn’t sure of anything. He only gave her a moment to speak and he already hated the silence. She pulled back her hand, leaving his only hand cold and alone. Jaime scowled and said, “Gods, say _something_ you arduous woman—”

Brienne said nothing and interrupted him with a kiss and both hands on his cheeks. She breathed new life into him, as if he held his breath since their last kiss. His hand tugged her waist closer and her taste seeped into him— new, yet familiar. They sparred with their lips while they unarmed their weapons and hearts. Jaime broke the kiss and knelt down on a thin layer of hay, leveling his mouth at the top of her thighs. _Perfect._ He pushed aside her robe skirts and fumbled with the laces in her trousers while she stared in shock. Managing a half smile, Jaime licked his lips. _I want you melting in my mouth._

She stood there— staring, staring, staring until Jaime reached up a hand to guide her down while his cock strained against his breeches. _She’s just as much a maiden as before._ Her cautious hand took his. Jaime laid Brienne down, crawled over her and trailed light kisses along her jawline. Blood pressure rising, Jaime propped himself up on his bad arm and slid his good hand over her clothes. Brienne shivered. The desire to please her outweighed his nerves, and he slipped his hand through her robe skirt and underneath her trousers and smallclothes. She gasped and lifted her chest against him while his hand found wet, hot flesh. _Fuck._ His slow hand rubbed against her as she let out incoherent moans. _Say my name._

A cold breeze floated over them, reminding Jaime of their limited time. _I could do this for hours._ He curled his finger inside of her, and her eyes glossed over as if she had never been touched before. Although a cocky man, Jaime knew she would orgasm quicker if he knew how.

“Show me— I want you to finish,” Jaime said against her ear.

“You want to stop?” She asked, and gripping the sides of his shoulders. 

Jaime blinked. She didn’t understand him. He lifted himself to hover over her. “No, just the opposite, I want you to—” Gods, words escaped him, for once. Brienne’s hands tightened against his cloak. “I came last time—” Jaime said.

“I thought women...” Her cheeks flushed. She wet her lips with her tongue, distracting him while she struggled for words. 

_Fuck— those lips._

Brienne continued, “I haven’t—” 

_You haven’t— Oh._ Guilt ran through him for not asking earlier. Brienne grew up in a different time. Jaime sent her a soft smile and took out his hand from under her smallclothes. Pressuring her or shaming her did not interest him. Brienne remained still, gazing at him for direction. Jaime leaned down and kissed her reddening cheek. “Women—” he kissed her other cheek, “and you—” Jaime’s lips touched hers, soft as velvet, “get whatever you damn well want.”

Brienne swallowed, staring at him with longing eyes. Her hands spoke first and reached for his trousers. _She wants me._ Jaime looked down to confirm what his mind refused to believe. Her fingers untied his laces. _She wants me._ Jaime admired Brienne and swooped down to kiss her again, surrounding her in rough pulls and pushes with his lips. _I want her._

The sudden burst of confidence from Brienne melted away as they pushed smallclothes to their upper thighs. She didn’t know what else to do. Chill stung against their bare skin, however little was exposed. Between heated breaths, Jaime moved them to their sides: his chest flush against her back. His stump arm snaked underneath her, wrapping her into a tight embrace while his good hand roamed over her naked hip and returned between her thighs. His cock throbbed against her soft ass, teasing them both until one of Brienne’s lost hands reached back to clench Jaime’s upper thigh. Her moans silenced and her breathing shook. He couldn’t wait. Jaime pointed his cock between her thighs, thrust into her and buried his face into her back. She bucked against him, forcing her wide hips closer, closer and closer until she completely swallowed him. Jaime held her still against him, thoughtless and wordless. She clenched around his cock and moaned. 

Around them, heavy clouds approached and the temperature plummeted, yet neither of them cared. Jaime fucked her slowly. Her hands, no longer lost, clutched her swordbelt and his maimed forearm. Years of negative, oppressive influence couldn’t be washed away in a moment, but Jaime would fucking try. His good hand pleasured her, but every sound and tremble from her drove him nearer to the end. His cock wanted nothing but to fill her, and the mental image of her dripping with his seed lurched him forward. Jaime fell apart, pulling out just in time to spill himself in his own hand with a shuddering breath. 

He expected anger from her, as he didn’t last long. Instead, she turned over and swarmed him with kisses. They collided and she pressed him down onto his back. His cock may have been spent, but his heart beat harder. He held her face as best as he could with his ugly stump. Kisses died down into pecks and smiles. Over time, his guilt over her pleasure subsided, because she seemed pleased regardless. She helped them dress and snuggled up next to him on the floor. _This_ was what he wanted: a moment alone with her.

Snow fell, and he gazed at the drifting flakes that swayed like kisses from the clouds. Peace and quiet surrounded him. He glanced at Brienne, who quickly averted her eyes, which had been ogling at him, alongside a bashful smile, and she hid her face between his arm and chest. He chuckled. She was still as pure as snow.


	38. Chapter 38

Jaime should have known from Brienne’s smile that she would turn into a lascivious goddess. Their gap in years became evident. She asked him to hunt all the time— even twice in one day! _I’m not twenty._ She asked so often that Jaime declined her in front of Sansa and Podrick. Brienne looked like she sunburned in Dorne when Podrick asked, “My Lady, why are you not catching anything?”

Jaime rescued her and said, “Squires learn, they don’t ask questions.” 

But all worries melted away when they stole their rare moments alone. During their weeks of travels through the wilderness, abandoned sheds and ledges, they made sure to take advantage of time after a full meal. They bickered, wrestled and argued their way into a routine. Kissing came first, usually, until Jaime couldn’t ignore his own impatience. He fucked her against trees, under trees or over snow. In contrast to her lewd and sultry moans, Brienne still preferred clothes on, either from the cold, embarrassment or both. She let him pleasure her, and even welcomed it. After what felt like hours of trying, she never came, but she _insisted_ she enjoyed it all the same. 

“Let’s try my mouth,” Jaime asked once, wanting to go down on her. Mortified, Brienne shook her head and glared at him. 

“I’m a great singer— just let me—” 

“No,” was all she said, serious and final. On the verge of a fight, they stared at each other… until Jaime licked his lips. They both burst out laughing. Seven Hells, he was a teenager, or he was a newlywed on a honeymoon.

After Jaime finished and Brienne had enough of trying, they talked about anything and everything. Her family and her home. Jaime missed home: warm winds and beautiful sunsets at Casterly Rock. But he listened to Brienne. She wasn’t always an only child, and barely remembered an older brother, Galladon, before he passed away. Brienne became quite the chatterbox, and Jaime couldn’t get a word in. She ranted about her first impressions of him: rash, headstrong and angry. Well, part of it was true. Septa Roelle was a tough subject, and Jaime angered whenever Brienne repeated what she had been told as a child: no one would ever love her, find her beautiful, etc. In Brienne’s eyes, Jaime could tell that she still believed her septa. _Not if I have anything to do with it._

He paid attention to Brienne’s subtle reactions, before, during and after sex. She blushed more whenever he smiled. She loved kissing. _Gods, she’s great at it._ She gripped him harder whenever his lips ran across the dip between her collarbones. She preferred holding his stump over his cock, not that Jaime had any interest in pressuring her. It surprised him, more than anything, that such a strong, brave woman turned so shy and romantic. He adored both Briennes.

On their way back to camp from a tryst, their horses stopped. Horse ears pointed left and beyond a hill. Brienne marched forward on her mare, and Jaime’s horse followed. In the distance, they spotted a small structure with a horse tied to a hitching rail, next to an inn. The steed neighed. Smoke wafted through a chimney and into the cool air. Brienne and Jaime took one look at each other and agreed in silence. They needed food.

Only the innkeeper bustled throughout the warm, stuffy place: an old man with one eye and a long white beard. He kept the fire full and angry, and mountains of wood rested in heaps beside it. _A fire hazard, to say the least._ He welcomed the two of them in, mumbled nonsense and retrieved two bowls of steaming stew. Jaime’s mouth watered while the man stared at them, still holding their food. Brienne slapped a few coins on the table. The man let out a almost toothless, crooked smile and served their bowls.

“She carry the coins and sword, my Gods,” the man said. He shuffled away and tended to the fire, adding several logs that weren’t necessary. Jaime eyed Brienne, who smirked against her soup. They knew better than to reveal their accent, so they kept quiet.

The old man breathed for air as if he ran a marathon— just from walking ten feet. Jaime chewed through tiny, crunching fish bones while the man continued to speak and to bother them. The man said, “That animal Stannis…” 

Jaime sipped his soup. _Stannimal._ Jaime smiled at the new nickname, but Brienne’s face turned white. The man rambled about Stannis and his army while Brienne and Jaime wondered the same thing: _Why would Stannis be up here?_ The innkeeper peered his single eye at Jaime. “Aren’t you called to arms?”

Jaime lowered his wooden bowl and jetted out his healed stump. The man laughed. Jaime ignored the mockery and eyed a frowning Brienne. She straightened her back and puffed out her chest. _Careful, old man. She’ll cut out your other eye._

“Ah, Boltons don’t care,” the innkeeper said. “Boltons hack that hand off for fun and expect you to fight with the strength of two.”

_Oh, I have the strength of two._ Jaime smirked at Brienne.

Brienne sneered and ignored Jaime. She opened her mouth and said, “The Boltons didn’t take his hand— ” she stopped, mouth closed.

_Gods, woman, keep quiet!_ Jaime sent Brienne a fierce glare.

But it was too late.

The man picked up on her southern accent in an instant, his single eye widened and turned its attention to her. She couldn’t be more of an enigma if she tried harder. The man alternated between a smile and a glare, “Aye, you’re not from here. Why a creature lost so far up north?” The old man leaned in closer, close enough for Jaime to smell must and grease. 

Brienne stiffened.

Jaime cleared his throat. “Wife,” Jaime said.

The man flashed his eye to Jaime, back to Brienne and back to Jaime. He scoffed and nodded. After a smile, the man said, “True Northerner, my friend. I shalln’t report for missing Boltons call. You best be far from here when that ugly stag marches down, taunting the poor girl o' Winterfell. An’ the Wildlings. Makes me wanna fight.”

“Lady Sansa?” Brienne asked, refusing to keep quiet despite Jaime’s insistent scowls towards her.

The man nodded and frowned. “Aye, Stannis have her. Captured. Food for the road?”

Jaime and Brienne shared a quick gaze, and Jaime gave a single nod. Brienne’s face calcified into a permanent glowering frown. They spent a few coins on dried fish, followed by several minutes of the man’s rambles about ghosts, the dead and fairytales. Ghost stories bored Jaime, and it killed him to not talk. Jaime forced one smile after another, and after several attempts to walk out the door, they finally escaped into the cold with strings of fish jerky in hand.

“Gods, the man never shut up,” Jaime said as he slumped in his saddle and rolled out his neck. The man was long gone, tucked away in his warm inn— but he still annoyed Jaime. He hated the way the man looked at Brienne, like she was a creature. Jaime inhaled a deep breath of fresh, smoke-less air and turned his shoulders to Brienne. Through gloved hands, she rubbed her cheek and jaw, lost in midthought. 

“My Lady— ” Jaime tried getting her attention. She didn’t blush. She always blushed when he said that phrase, whether he said it to tease her or in shaky breaths before he came. She always responded to it. Not now. She stared ahead. 

“Brienne,” he asked, and she tightened her lips, tensing them as she fell deeper into her own thoughts.

“Wife!” he yelled, and she snapped a firm glare at him. She did _not_ like that name. _You don’t scare me._

“Faster,” Brienne said, in a tone and expression as if Jaime said or did something wrong. “For Sansa.”

_I don’t like to see so much pain  
So much wasted and this moment keeps slipping away  
I get so tired of working so hard for our survival  
I look to the time with you to keep me awake and alive_

They galloped their horses to the campsite, not far away. After dismounting, Brienne gathered everyone along the fire-pit. Podrick and Sansa’s excitement over the dried fish lasted until Sansa inquired about their source. Jaime thought on his feet, opening his mouth to explain an elaborate lie about finding them in an abandoned shed— Brienne’s honesty beat him to it.

“An innkeeper, not far from here,” Brienne said. “He says Stannis Baratheon marches his army to Winterfell. I believe the Boltons say Stannis has you captive.”

_Gods be damned._

Podrick and Sansa exchanged quiet, wide eyed glances. 

_Just tell them we’ve been fucking the past two months and kill me already._

“Why— would you—” Sansa said, narrowing her eyes. 

Jaime’s heart accelerated. Brienne was neither gentle nor pleasing, and he feared she really would tell the truth. _No, don’t tell them._ Sansa’s expression dropped and gazed around with urgent eyes. Her breath caught in her throat. Sansa lifted her chin and asked Brienne, “He’s close?”

Brienne replied with a firm nod as her hands tightened into fists. “Yes, My Lady, we should get moving to avoid him—”

“No,” Sansa said, “we will join him.”

Brienne blinked, not bothering to hide her surprise with an open mouth. “My Lady?” 

“Stannis supports my family. He’s closer than Jon,” Sansa said, hope gleaming in her eyes.

Jaime frowned while Brienne pressed her lips into a firm, tight line. If she tried to hide her judgement, she did a poor job of it. _And she’s loyal past the point of sense._ Brienne stepped forward and shook her head. “He’s not to be trusted. Sorcery. Blood magic.”

With a faint glare, Sansa replied, “While we starve?”

Goosebumps rolled along Jaime’s skin. He inhaled a full breath and said, “Well, we’re not starving any more.” Jaime shrugged, although no one looked at him. “You can thank me later.”

“I will speak with him,” Sansa said.

“I—” Brienne released a quick smile, dripping with mockery, and said, “do not advise that, My Lady.” 

“Let someone speak for her,” Jaime said. 

“And let them be captured?” Brienne asked, changing her tone into a deep, stern voice. “Or by Wildlings?” 

Sansa shook her head and said, “Any man to take back my home is welcome. He has more men than Jon. Closer than Jon—”

Brienne placed her hands on her swordbelt so tightly, even Jaime heard the leather in her gloves crunching. Her lips turned white as she compressed them and held back her anger.

Podrick stammered and stepped closer. “I’ll go,” Podrick said, “I’m the only one who can.”

“Pod...” Brienne said, wincing.

“We will run into him wherever we go,” Pod said. “We’re— halfway to Castle Black? If we continue up, we’ll march right through him. The more time we spend here, the more likely the Boltons catch us. They’re onto us.”

Brienne couldn’t argue with reason, or her lady’s demands. Despite her vows to Sansa and her mother, Brienne possessed adamant defense for the dead. She never let go. Jaime inhaled a deep breath and deepened his stare at the woman. Brienne averted her eyes and packed the camp without another word.


	39. Chapter 39

Finding Stannis, closer than Castle Black, proved more difficult than Sansa hoped. A storm, as strong as Brienne, pinned the four of them into their most miserable night under creaking, snapping pine branches. Snow massed around them, and clouds refused to relent. No Stannis. No Boltons. No one. Tormented by weather, Sansa demanded to go to the inn for shelter. With reluctance, Brienne agreed.

Before sunrise, the inn appeared through thick snow and groaning wind. Despite the risk of being discovered at the inn, they would meet certain death without proper shelter. Brienne and Podrick entered the inn with sword in hand, ready to make desperate demands. Upon entering, they found the man cold, pale and slumped over logs— dead, and forever silenced. 

Beside a raging, smoking fire, the women argued about their best plan. Sansa wanted to wait for Stannis, Brienne wanted to leave the next day, and the two men remained quiet. The women compromised by deciding to stay through the end of the storm. 

The storm refused to compromise.

So much snow accumulated, Brienne appeared short. Mountains of snow grew faster than weeds. _We won’t be leaving here any time soon._ A week passed with them never leaving the inn. And another. An unusual warm day melted some of the snow, followed by another deep freeze, turning piles of snow into heavy, icy rocks. _How long can it really snow in the North?_

All four captives lost their patience. Even Sansa spent a good part of every day helping clear ice and snow from the front of the stables. Without spring, snow would not melt. _If we can get to the road, we can get out of here._ Without plows, a modern convenience, they had to achieve everything by hand— and Jaime only had one. Jaime supported everyone by heating water or cooking meals.

Brienne paced and stared out of windows, half expecting an army to march up to their door. She enlisted Jaime and Podrick to daily scouting and hunting around the area in makeshift snowshoes. They found a road to the east, and no sign of Stannis or Boltons. To the west of the inn, hot springs released steam, wafting into bitter, cold air. Further east, they discovered a large lake. Podrick and Jaime found several groups of Northerners fishing through holes in the ice. Avoiding people remained a primary goal of theirs, and no one wanted to anger Brienne or Sansa.

Jaime walked with the sound of a whisper around his lover. On top of not revealing their relationship, Jaime knew Sansa’s request bothered Brienne. Stannis distracted her like an itch she couldn’t scratch. She never spoke about it, or Renly, and they didn’t share enough time alone to discuss Stannis.

Jaime and Brienne sat close to the fire, stirring fish broth in cast iron. They heard echoes of Podrick and Sansa clanking against ice outside. Jaime plopped more fish bones into the water and stood with a large sigh. Brienne glanced at him with a quick glare, and looked away.

_Enough of this, woman._ Jaime frowned and asked, “Are you upset? At me?”

“Upset at you? Gods, no,” Brienne said with a frown. 

Jaime squinted his eyes. _I don’t believe you._ “You seem… tense.” 

“I am,” Brienne said. “I have vowed to kill Stannis—”

Jaime’s brows furrowed as he sat, trying to confront her with his scowl. “Your current vow wants Stannis as an ally.” _Don’t be silly._

“I am not released from either vow. Stannis is not an ally.”

“The vow to your dead King Renly? And what do you do when your vows conflict with each other?”

“Sansa has other allies,” she said. Brienne still managed to avoid looking at him and continued to stir the fish bones.

“Only Jon,” Jaime said, shaking his head. “Months away, with the enemy straight at her heels. Our heels.”

Brienne inhaled a deep breath and side eyed Jaime. 

He softened his look into a pleading frown, to which she averted her eyes away. _Just promise me you won’t do anything stupid._ She didn’t need any more vows. What she _needed_ was relaxation. 

Weeks wore on without new snow, and they almost completed their path to the road. Only then, after being cooped up for almost two months, did Brienne agree to spend time with Jaime— alone. He wasted no time and walked west with her. 

“Don’t bother wearing your armor, I’m only going to take it off,” Jaime said, climbing up a slope of icy snow. Together, they walked away from the inn and into the wilderness. Brienne followed him in awkward snowshoes, like a fawn with new legs.

“There could be people out here,” Brienne said.

Jaime’s face heated with anger as he turned around. “We haven’t seen a soul or footprint out this way in the two months we’ve been here. Trust me.”

Her hand on pommel said otherwise. Her nose stained red from chill and her pale skin appeared whiter against the dead fur wrapped around her shoulders. Brienne’s lips, slightly chapped, refused to engage in Jaime’s attempts at conversation as they headed west, covered by encroaching pine branches and canopies. 

“Where are we going?” Brienne asked.

“To a fond memory.” 

Over a hill, Jaime descended into a humid fog covering the hot springs. Warm pools rested between snow covered ledges. Steam danced along the surface, drifting with slow water into a small creek that led into the river. Jaime smirked and Brienne scowled. Dozens of people could fit in these springs, but only Jaime and Brienne’s eyes feasted upon it. He leaned over to test the warm water with his hand. Heat seeped through his remaining fingers and radiated deep into his bones. It was perfect.

Jaime smiled with pride and wiggled out of his clothes. “These places are all the rage in my time. Let’s enjoy it. Just like old times.” 

Frowning, Brienne stood still. Her damn clothes remained on. 

_I’m not asking you to dive into lava— just a gentle push outside your comfort zone._ Jaime asked, “Gods, when was the last time you took a bath? With me?” Jaime tilted his head with an evil smirk. Over two years had passed since their Harrenhal bath. It was the first time she haunted him. The first time he admitted his identity. _And she saved me._ Jaime’s grin turned sentimental.

Brienne never replied and continued to stare into the water.

Jaime, now naked and shivering, tiptoed into the water. A sinful sigh spilled out from between his lips. He may, or may not, have exaggerated the pleasure to nudge Brienne in. Warmth wrapped over his dirty, dry and tired legs as the water came up to his hips. He turned around, catching Brienne’s eyes gawking at him. He smirked while she gulped and glanced away.

Due to her shy eyes asking for privacy, Jaime decided against teasing her, however tempting it was, and turned around. He stared at a ledge that dripped melting snow. His ears focused on the sound until he heard Brienne rustle about. Jaime peeked, too excited to remember why he avoided watching her in the first place.

As graceful and smooth as the A minor chord, she appeared half a goddess and half a woman. Soft, toned curves rounded every part of her. Jaime’s throat constricted when her chest exposed— nipples tightening as they met cold air. Her scars had darkened, and he swore he could see the hairs on her arms stand. With every move to peel off her clothing, Jaime fixated on her flexing and stretching muscles. Jaime’s aching heart filled his chest. At that moment, everything about her pleased him. 

Her eyes darted up to confront him. 

Caught, Jaime swallowed and averted his eyes. He said, “I brought you here to enjoy a bath together, but you do what you want.” _Shut up already._

Brienne cleared her throat, now naked, and stepped into the water with caution. Jaime reached out his hand, silently asking for her acceptance. Without hesitation, she stretched her hand to clasp his and allowed him to welcome her. 

In the water, they embraced. Her skin glided on his as he held her. Both arms wrapped around her back while he rested his forehead against hers. Heat surrounded them. She tucked her head lower, closed her eyes, and splayed her hands across his back with a shuddering breath. _You’re uncomfortable._ In spite of everything she had done and everyone she had saved in her young life, she found herself unworthy— even of him. _No quantity of smooth words could pacify her self-esteem more than touch or a kiss._ He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. Her eyes opened, and he pulled back to greet them with devotion. Jaime’s only hand trailed across her face, grazing over each feature, no matter how mismatched or unconventional: her broad forehead, feathery hair, crooked nose and freckled cheeks. Trails of warm water dripped down her face. He lowered his hand, exploring each scar along her shivering chest. He paid each feature the same attention— no fear or repulsion, only gentleness and affection. Brienne melted. He glanced up as her lips quivered. _How could I ever forget those?_ He leaned forward, kissing them. Brienne’s lips trembled more, and he began to wonder if he did something wrong. 

_I’ll be holding on to you  
And even if you slip away  
I’ll be there to fall into the dark  
To chase your heart  
No distance could ever tear us apart_

Her hand sought out his stump, the ugly mess of a thing. Skin healed many, many times, but his mind would never let his pain go. His identity and purpose had been stolen from him. He could have returned home intact, he could have learned how to fight, he could have been a stronger man, he could have been a better man, but he wouldn’t be here. Brienne lifted his stump and brought it to her cheek, holding it as if his phantom hand cradled her face. She broke their soft kiss and placed her lips on his stump with soft, closed eyes. Jaime winced. He could _feel_ her lips on his right hand. 

She leaned forward, kissing him with a strength she had been holding back. His only hand reached back to brace himself against rocks. He found stone, and something better: a pressured, underwater stream erupting from the edge of the spring. His sore hand appreciated the massage, which felt like a jet stream in a hot tub— and opportunity dawned on him.

After breaking their kiss, Jaime asked, “Do you trust me?” 

Brienne blinked and gave a weak nod.

He reached down to grab and turn her body away from him. She tensed when he reached down to hold her and position her body. Her strong, toned back rested against his chest, and she looked left and right while he pressed her closer to the stones.

“Lower,” Jaime said, navigating her with his good hand on her inner thigh. After a quivering breath, she complied, sinking lower in the water. His stump arm wrapped around her for support and held their bodies close. Jaime’s lips dragged behind her ear. “Lower,” he said again, and she looked back at him. They met eyes for a moment, and she faced forward, bending her knees and following his lead. Jaime lowered himself with her as water settled around their shoulders. Her back pressed into him as the water settled around their shoulders. Jaime pressed forward— Brienne immediately squirmed and tightened every muscle in her body as the pressurized water pressed between her thighs.

“Do you trust me?” Jaime asked again.

Still tense, Brienne nodded. Through deep, nervous breaths, she tilted herself forward and back onto the stream. She whimpered.

Jaime bit his lip and held her as the pressure pleasured her. _Relax._ His bearded chin rested on a spot between her shoulder and neck. Like every other time they tried to help her finish, she quieted and focused. Smooth and soft mazes of her back covered firm and strong muscles underneath. His concentration on her aroused him better than he hoped. She tensed against him, finding her position, and Jaime reached his hand between them to massage her back. She lurched forward, grinding herself over his hardening cock. He lowered his hand to readjust himself— she moaned. _You like that?_ Jaime breathed out, reached up, and underneath the working stream, he found her slick and swollen. Jaime closed his eyes and parted his lips. _Brienne._ He slipped his index finger inside of her. Another moan escaped her. 

He followed her every sound, breath and movement. If she moaned, he did it again. She liked it when he teased her— his fingers stroking or curling inside of her. Jaime kissed the bottom of her neck, withdrew his fingers and she whimpered. _I have something better._ Jaime pointed his cock up and rubbed his head against her. He meant to tease her, build her, take his time— but she lowered herself over him amidst a lewd sound. His moan matched hers. The stream pushed against her while she bucked back. Jaime pressed forward, holding her tighter with both arms wrapped around her waist and chest. _You’re so close._ Now irregular, her breaths stuttered in and out while her left hand clutched his thigh. Jaime winced and bit his lip. 

_I won’t last long._ Full of tension and plea, Jaime said, “Brienne—” 

Wrapped around his cock, she clenched harder, harder and harder until she came around him. Forgetting to breathe, she reclined her head, opened her mouth and closed her eyes while her body simultaneously turned soft and taut. Jaime thrust deeper. Shameless moans claimed her, followed by deep gasps of air. He held her close while she drowned in pleasure. 

As she relaxed, he pulled out, on the verge of spilling inside her. She turned, kissed and paralyzed him with her hand on his cock. It was the first time she touched him. Jaime, desperate for release, reached down and guided her warm hand, stroking his cock with her while Brienne kissed him. It didn’t take long— his cock swelled and throbbed, and spilled underwater. Jaime weakened against her, loosening his own hand on his cock while her hand stroked the length of him.

Her long legs lifted to straddle him in the water, like a bride being carried off from her wedding night. Jaime rested his ear against her chest, hearing her heart pounding against him. Brienne caved her flushing body into him and grinned down at him. To his amazement, he stayed hard, and the look in her eyes asked for more. With the help of the stream underwater, she came two more times, each one louder and stronger than the last. With the help of her, he came once more, and his abs and thighs ached. 

Dreamy smiles upon their faces, they dressed and walked back to the inn warm, alive and drunk on pleasure.


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Super busy weekend. I might only post one chapter a day. We shall see!

“Ser— Jaime—”

Jaime opened his eyes as Pod hovered over him. Darkness flooded them both, and Jaime inhaled cold, smoky inn air. Through failing night eyes, Jaime barely discerned Pod’s furrowed eyebrows and tight lips.

“I already watched tonight,” Jaime said, half tempted to close his eyes and ignore the young teen. Almost every night, Jaime watched first shift, gazing outside blurry windows for any intruders. Podrick’s lack of response irked Jaime into propping himself up with a groan. His abs still ached from earlier— a pleasant pain he wished he could recreate again and again. Spending an hour in the hot springs with Brienne felt like a dream, but soreness of his muscles and cock proved it to be real. 

Podrick’s mouth opened and closed several times while Jaime’s eyes gazed beyond him. Large embers radiated blood red, and Sansa lay on her bed roll— still asleep.

“No—” Podrick said, stuttering, “I saw— men.”

“Where is Brienne?” 

“Gone,” Pod’s eyes followed Jaime’s as he stood. “She…” Pod said, eyes unable to remain still, “told me to stay here, and protect you both.” 

_Damnable woman._ “Boltons?” Jaime asked, reaching down to grab his sword belt. He couldn’t fight well, but he was even worse at doing nothing.

“Stannis. I remember his banners from the Blackwater,” Pod said. 

Jaime paused and closed his eyes. _Foolish woman._ When he opened them, Pod waited and stared. Jaime’s half-empty stomach drained its veins and arteries while his mind calculated what to do. A hushed whisper of wind blew against the inn. _She’s out there… alone._ Jaime clenched his jaw and stepped towards their lookout window. Her mare was missing. _Fuck._

After several steps towards the door, the sound of Sansa murmuring stopped him from exiting. Jaime frowned and gazed over, watching her roll over to her other side. _What if Brienne doesn’t come back?_ Jaime’s fingers squeezed the half-blunted sword in his only hand. _I can’t rescue you with this._ Pod blinked and hunched his shoulders over, peering through the window for any sign of her. With little moon, dark, gray snow covered every surface. Jaime frowned at Pod, who forced a small smile. _I can’t send you, either._

With no logical method to save her, Jaime snapped. He threw down his sword and metal clanged against wooden floor, startling Sansa awake. Jaime ignored both of them and shook his head, growing more angry by the second. _This is a mistake, Brienne._ He hated his mistakes. Drugs. Love. Family. Accidents. Jaime scowled out the window while Podrick clambered out of his way. Jaime had never forgotten the sound of crunching metal during the car accident, almost stealing his life— but it robbed others instead. _I shouldn’t have listened. I shouldn’t have promised. Promises only bring pain._ Jaime inhaled, clenching his fist.

_I don’t know what’s in the stars  
Never heard it from above, the world isn’t ours  
But I know what’s in my heart  
If you ain’t mine I’ll be torn apart_

“Where is Brienne?” Sansa asked.

“Doing something stupid,” Jaime said over his shoulder. His hand needed to do _something_ , so he turned around and walked to his bedroll. “Let’s move upstairs.”

Pod helped Sansa to standing. She clutched her furs tighter around her shoulders while Pod gathered a heapful of logs. The three of them stumbled over steps in darkness. When they arrived in the innkeeper’s chambers, stale, frozen air smacked into them. Pod did his best to start a new fire in the hearth while Sansa embraced herself in the center of the room.

“Get some sleep, I’ll watch,” Jaime said to Sansa as he set down their bedrolls.

She frowned and glanced to Podrick.

Pod widened his eyes and his face twitched. “I’ll stay up with you, Ser.”

Jaime and Brienne’s squire set up their chairs close to the hearth and the window— peering out for signs of Brienne or Stannis’ army. Sansa tossed and turned on her bedroll as the crackling fire tamed itself into a low patter.

Podrick said, “I apologize, Ser, for—”

“Don’t,” Jaime said, scowling and shaking his head. “You did as you were asked. You’re a good squire. Her, on the other hand…” Jaime trailed off, feeling his blood pressure rise at the thought of her abandoning them.

Podrick said, “She’s the best ser I have squired for. I mean—”

“I know what you mean. She’s better than any knight I’ve seen.”

Podrick scooted his chair closer. “You’ve seen a lot of knights, Ser Jaime. Arthur Dayne. The Smiling Knight. Selmy.”

Jaime forced a smile. He had heard of those names and more from his squires and time at Casterly Rock, but never met them. “I have, but my fighting days are done,” Jaime said.

Pod pressed his lips together and gazed at the window. He frowned.

Jaime tilted his head and crossed his arms. “You want to be a knight someday?”

Podrick nodded an eager head.

Holding back a smile, Jaime asked, “Why? Impress your father?”

Podrick leaned back and his eyes fell, only for a moment. After frowning, Podrick said, “Father’s dead.”

“Mother?”

“Gone.”

“Gone where?”

Podrick shrugged. “Westerlands, I suppose.”

“Where you’re from?”

Pod nodded.

“We’re both far from home.”

Pod nodded again.

_Home._ Jaime stared out the window into the snow and grimaced. The woods witch had said he would return home, and yet, here he was, freezing his ass off in the North. Jaime drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes, imagining home. In his mind’s eye, he pictured Casterly Rock. He heard its crashing waves on the crag and cawing seagulls. He smelled sand, and the scent of Brienne drenched in her own sweat after sparring. Jaime smiled. He needed to go back home. He stayed in the past for her, but he would never consider the North home. _Once Sansa is safe, I’ll take you home... with me._

Podrick interrupted Jaime’s thoughts and said, “It’s cold here.”

Jaime took one look at Podrick and the two of them burst into mutual smiles. 

Dawn arrived, and Sansa busied herself by repairing clothes. Podrick polished and sharpened swords while Jaime sat still, staving sleep, blinking and breathing through gnawing pits in his stomach. _You could be dead. Right now. With a noose around your neck and swinging from a tree._ Jaime's eyes closed and fell asleep midday in his chair, leaning up against dry, creaking wood boards. Holes and cracks in the wood soaked up his drool, and he startled awake at dusk when Podrick jerked his shoulder.

Through the window, the three of them saw Brienne riding her horse— walking through their carved road in ice, towards their stables. 

Jaime raced out of the chambers and into the stables. His beard, still wet from sleep, stung against his jaw. 

Brienne had already dismounted her horse and brushed past wide eyed Jaime. 

_What in Seven Hells are you doing?!_ “Brienne,” Jaime said, and she refused to turn around. 

Stiff as ever, she headed to the doorway and stormed in. 

He followed her, repeating her name and she _kept walking._

With purpose, she followed the sound of Podrick’s rustling and entered the chambers upstairs.

To everyone, she said, “Stannis’ forces were defeated in the field. We should leave now.”

Frustrated and enraged, Jaime shook his head. “Travel in the middle of the night?!” 

Sansa’s mouth fell open and Podrick dusted off his thighs, ready to follow Brienne or Sansa’s order.

Brienne ignored Jaime’s question and turned to her squire. “Pod, I need you to clean my sword,” she said. He obliged as she pulled out the blade: stained with dried and frozen blood.

“No,” Jaime said, struggling to keep his eyes open long enough to scowl at Brienne. _We’ll die out there._

“Gather up as much hay, food, cloaks and items we can,” Brienne said.

“Where are the Boltons?” Sansa asked, voice trembling.

Firm and lacking emotion, Brienne answered, “Boltons defeated Stannis’ army on the field. Stannis is dead. Boltons retreated— for now. I have little doubt that they have stopped looking for you, My Lady.”

Without giving him her ear, Jaime had no choice but to follow Brienne's orders. After packing and saddling their horses for what felt like the first time in years, they set off as the moon lifted. The waxing moon and stars glistened above them, providing just enough light for their party to find the road to Castle Black. Other than the sound of crunching ice under anxious hooves, quiet settled around them, but Jaime could only hold his tongue for so long.

“Explain yourself,” Jaime said, bringing his horse next to Brienne’s. 

Brienne shifted her eyes to and away from him. With a sigh, she whispered, “She’s not safe with Stannis near.”

“She’s just as safe with you gone and your head cut off... About as safe as a fake knight with one hand,” Jaime said, not bothering to keep his voice down. His breath turned to mist and floated until he could no longer see it.

Brienne sent him a violent glare. A declaration of war. She boiled within herself and her reaction angered him more.

“No words?” Jaime said, refusing to smile at her grimace. Bitterness overwhelmed all other pleasantries. “I’m sure risking our lives was worth you watching the stags get their asses kicked.” _Why didn’t you wake me?_

“A vow is a vow,” Brienne said through gritted teeth. “I finished it.”

“Finish...” Jaime quieted, realizing the blood on her sword was Stannis Baratheon’s. He should have known the best fighter in Westeros wouldn’t have a problem, but he couldn’t shake off the abandonment. “Why not kill the damn Boltons while you’re at it,” he said under his breath. 

Brienne’s scowl deepened. “I wish I did. But honor compels me—”

“Honor is a truce, and you need trust to have a truce, remember?” Jaime said. Brienne’s nose flared for a moment, and when she opened her mouth to speak, Jaime cut her off again. “Sansa trusts you less, I can see it,” he whispered, “She has no one but you.” 

Stubborn, Brienne tightened her lips together before she replied, “The Stark girls are the only vow I have left.”

“You’re wrong,” Jaime said. _I am hers. And she is mine._

Brienne glared at him, leaving him smiling. His eyes refused to look away from her, fearing she might disappear again. His heart twinged, only a little, realizing she held her vow to protect Sansa over him. If she didn’t know how headstrong he was, she was about to find out.


	41. Chapter 41

Eight weeks felt short compared to Jaime’s years of journey into the past. They trotted up roads traveled by Stannis’ army, now dead. Sansa’s seat sat deeper and her boot heels guided her once feisty mare into one of the sturdiest horses of the bunch. _The horse hasn’t changed, the rider has._ Despite never having been to Castle Black, Sansa and her horse led the way. She woke up first every morning, taking Brienne’s place by planning routes for travel. _More of a Queen every day._ The woods witch prophecy, like a melody he couldn’t shake out of his head, repeated in his mind.

_Your past becomes your future. Your love awaits you at the northern weirwood. You will kill something you’ve lost, marry the Queen, but wear no crown. You will make music that brings tears to your eyes. You will return home._

Over two and a half years had passed since he arrived in ancient Westeros. His past became his future. Brienne awaited him at the northern weirwood. He married the Queen, and still wore no crown. But… Jaime hadn’t killed anything in the past— not yet. _I don’t kill lightly._ The part about tears and music confused him, but, above all, the woods witch’s last line haunted him the most. _Casterly Rock will have to wait for a little longer._

An endless, towering mountain of ice appeared in the distance. Its vertical climb crawled up the horizon as if he gawked a different planet. _This can’t be Westeros._ He had seen glaciers in his lifetime, but nothing like this. There was _no_ Wall in the future— one of the many wonders erased by time. Here it was. A whispering wind skimmed over Jaime’s shoulders, carrying him closer. He could almost feel the snow covered ground slope lower, and he was smaller, smaller and smaller with every step towards this one-sided canyon. Entering a permanent shadow, the Wall blocked out the sun. Jaime breathed in colder air, so frigid the humidity from his breath froze on the tips of his beard. The four of them, and their horses, waited outside large gates of Castle Black. Nothing, not even the cold, could wash away the smile on Jaime’s face. _Sansa is safe._

Horns erupted in unison like a choir straight from the Seven Hells, and the gate creaked open. Surreal emotions of finally reaching their destination faded away when everyone’s wide eyes stared at them. Men, and more men, stopped what they were doing and stared as Sansa’s group led their horses through the gates. Sansa let out a timid sigh while everyone hushed their whispers. 

Brienne’s posture elongated her tall stature while she reached for her pommel. Frowning, Jaime followed her disgusted gaze to a large, red headed man who gawked at her. _No. No. No._ In the void of relief grew a green and possessive instinct, threatening to affix Brienne permanently to his side. The red bearded man’s attention anchored on Brienne and he hadn’t noticed Jaime’s glare. It wasn’t until a man reached for Jaime’s reins that he broke his visual brawl. Jaime dismounted onto sore and aching feet.

The vile man had moved by the time someone led Jaime’s horse away, and as he searched for the man, everyone else’s eyes turned to a deck above the yard. A brooding man, cloaked in black, stared down— only at Sansa, who froze still. _Jon Snow?_ They looked nothing alike. The man walked down, taking his time and not taking his eyes off Sansa, who swelled with emotion and breathed deeper. The man walked faster, tilting his head to the side as if Sansa was a mirage, as if she wasn’t real, or as if it wasn’t possible. They culminated into a tight embrace, and Brienne and Jaime shared a brief acknowledgement. It took them more than two years— but Sansa was safe.

And they were warm, mostly. It took willpower Jaime didn’t know he had to allow Brienne out of his sight. Women weren’t allowed at Castle Black, but Jon insisted on giving them welcome quarters and warm baths. Brienne and Sansa elected to stay together, while Podrick and Jaime fumbled about finding their own accommodation. 

Out of the lot of them, Sansa cleaned up best. Her red hair, no longer matted and frayed, sat in a neat, clean braid. With each passing day, Sansa smiled more. She looked nothing like the flinching girl he met years ago, as she matured into a strong woman. Her shoulders straightened and she looked people in their eyes. Alongside her brother, she possessed a confidence Jaime hadn’t yet seen. 

It surprised Jaime to see her brooding as much as Jon at the end of their first week at Castle Black. She slouched, slightly, over the railing outside the kitchen, which smelled of smoke and oil. 

Smirking Jaime stepped beside Sansa and said, “Trouble in paradise?” _This place is anything but paradise._ He hadn’t seen Brienne alone for more than a couple seconds. They wore so many layers it would take Jaime minutes to strip her, tease her, fuck her— he hated himself for living just as much of a boring fuck-less life as the lot of these Northerner fools. Jaime let out a small sigh and looked to the yard. Brienne and Podrick sparred with blunted swords. 

After a pause, Sansa said, “Trouble seems to follow you around, Lord Lannister.”

Jaime smiled, refusing to let Sansa’s biting words sour his mood. _What do you have to be so upset about?_

Sansa reached up and brushed hair behind her ear: a subtle reminder of how he assaulted her to get her here. 

_Oh. That._ Jaime sighed and said, “A woman of your position surely understands that, sometimes, the ends justify the means?” Jaime tilted his head with a small smile. If he couldn’t talk his way out of this confrontation, his smile could.

Sansa eyed him, blinked and avoided his spell. Her eyes lifted and landed on Jon, who sneered at the two of them from his post above the yard. Jaime frowned as Jon stepped away and into shadows. _I have no friends here._

Brienne duped Podrick into a full swing of his sword, and she struck her sword against his back while she smiled. _At least she’s happy._ Pod whirled around and his feet refused to still, moving and bouncing his body around while he tried to calculate his next move. 

Having heard nothing, Jaime asked Sansa, “Tell me, what’s angering you? Brienne slaying Stannis?”

“I knew Stannis and the Boltons would fight,” she said with a faint, knowing smile. 

_You did?_ Jaime narrowed his eyes at Sansa. 

She tucked her chin closer to her chest. Softer, she said, “I had hoped Stannis would win but— It doesn’t matter. I am here now.”

“Thanks to me,” Jaime said, managing a half smile. Swords clinked in the yard, almost capturing his attention.

To his surprise, Sansa smirked back and tilted her head away, watching Brienne show off her skills against Pod. Sansa said, “I have an interest in eliminating my enemies, not making more of them.”

Jaime lowered his voice and said, “For my sake, I hope you know where I stand.” 

“You make it more than obvious where you stand. It’s whether or not I believe you.”

A moment of silence crept its way between them, and they watched the pair spar in the yard. Brienne toyed with Pod and led him on to think she was going to yield. _Think smarter than that, Pod._ Small smiles stretched onto Jaime’s face whenever she slammed a mortal blow to her squire. Sansa held back a smirk as well and Jaime burst into laughter when Podrick fell flat on his ass. 

_My oh my, this kind of love  
It’s taken me from my enemies  
Don’t let the pressure get to me  
My oh my, it’s bad enough  
Could you stay with me?  
Don’t let me go  
Sadness and fury is all I know_

Sansa said, “You laugh, but you cannot best her either.”

 _I’ve bested her many times._ Jaime ignored her bid for banter and held his tongue. He chose to watch Brienne in awe instead.

“Join them,” Sansa said. 

Jaime winced and looked at Sansa. She wore the same knowing smile he saw earlier, and it bothered him. “No, no, no, my fighting days are done.”

“I thought you wanted to be with her?” Sansa’s smile transformed into a smirk and she narrowed her eyes. “You _fight_ with her all the time.”

Jaime scowled, struggling to discern her meaning. Her smirking lips and bold eyes said it all: she knew. Denial kicked in. “Am I sensing jealousy from my former wi—” 

“I stayed in King’s Landing for years,” Sansa said, looking at Brienne. “Secrets aren’t easy to keep. And Brienne is a bad liar.”

 _She knows._ Jaime paled over and clenched the railing with a tight fist. Sounds of Brienne and Pod harmlessly fighting were drowned out by the pounding pulse in his ears. Jaime couldn’t hear his own thoughts. He leveled himself into a straight posture and said, “I swear, our first priority is your safety.”

Sansa smiled again and said, “I would hope so. But an oath from a Kingslayer, let alone a Lannister, is questionable. Are the rumors true?” Sansa squinted her eyes as her head tilted to the side.

Jaime’s brows tensed into a deep wrinkle. “What— rumors?” _I’m from the future?_

“You and your sister.” Her smile disappeared.

Considering everything he’d done to her, he deserved suspicion. He never killed Aerys, never slept with his sister— but if Jaime wanted to live in the past, he needed to take accountability for it. Jaime blinked and said, “That’s all in the past now.”

Sansa frowned, looked away and nodded. She stepped back from the railing and clasped her gloved hands together. With her eyes, she beckoned Jaime to follow her. “You’re still Lord of Casterly Rock,” Sansa asked, walking with leisure. 

Jaime accompanied her. “I suppose I am.” 

Sansa stopped at the entrance to the yard and pivoted to face him. She confronted him with steady eyes. “And I need an army.”

Jaime lowered his head and glanced around. Even if Castle Black had a hundred Brienne’s, it wouldn’t be enough. Jaime frowned and shook his head before saying, “This lot doesn’t count, does it?”

A subtle smirk appeared on Sansa’s face. “A Lannister always pays his debts. Bring your army.”


	42. Chapter 42

Jaime wavered on a wet wooden bench, swaying back and forth as the ship rocked. Gray, sea gloom lit the small room, lined with dark planks on the floor, walls and ceiling. Bile tickled the back of Jaime’s throat while his stomach lurched and twisted. It had been bothering him since they started their journey several days ago. Jon had agreed, with Sansa’s suggestion, to divide their party up. Jon, Sansa and the Free Folk planned to ask local houses for support, while Brienne and Jaime set sail from Eastwatch to Gulltown to bring the Lannister and Tully armies. _Simple task, I’m sure._ The idea of sharing Brienne’s warm bed in a climate without snow led Jaime to nod his head yes… until Brienne insisted Podrick join them. _”A squire is a squire.”_ Jaime considered knighting the teen to get him off his heels.

 _Does he know? About us?_ Jaime eyed Podrick across the table. He ate fresh bread soaked in gravy. Pod, almost with a permanent smile etched on his face, radiated positivity. Brienne enjoyed herself, too, considering her background on Tarth. Brienne grew up on water. _She is water, soft yet able to carve her way through mountains and valleys._ Jaime rolled his eyes at his own thoughts and slumped over while Brienne cut Jaime’s venison for him. He may have grown up beside water as well, but his stomach never appreciated it. Jaime winced and gazed over at Brienne. Her posture slouched more than his. Brienne was a true sailor. Jaime dragged his eyes to the soupish slosh in front of him. Liquid rolled around in the bowl as the ship swayed. Another wave of nausea hit Jaime and he coughed, almost heaving. _No meds to take. No planes to catch. A month of this. Fuck me._ Brienne stopped cutting his food and stared at him with growing sympathy.

Podrick cleared his throat and said, “When we get those armies, we’re just going to march North and ask people to move aside?” 

Brienne tightened and scowled. 

Podrick’s eyes danced between Brienne and Jaime, who sat across the table from him. Pod continued, “The Freys have the Twins. Moat Calin is— “

“Yes, Pod,” Brienne said, disregarding any attempt to keep her frustration hidden.

Brienne wasn’t happy leaving Sansa, not even if it meant traveling with Jaime. She truly believed her vow was best spent protecting Sansa and staying by her side, especially with Stannis’ former advisors around. But if Jaime knew anything about Brienne, it was her undying loyalty. If Sansa told her to jump off a cliff, she might do it.

“We’ll find a way,” Jaime said, voice fluctuating.

Brienne looked at Jaime, “We can get you teas, fragrances—” 

Nature shoved the ship to its side, jolting Brienne against Jaime’s chest. A welcome contact for him, but Brienne’s flustered blush admitted her fear: she didn’t want Podrick to find out. Brienne abandoned Jaime’s space as soon as she entered it, and she returned to her seat with straight posture. _No wonder Sansa found out._ And yet, Jaime couldn’t find it in his heart to tell her Sansa knew about their trysts. A quick look at Podrick found him focused on his bread again. _He’s either playing it cool or really is aloof._ Jaime forced a small smile, “Pod, why don’t you find those teas and fragrances?”

Podrick stopped mid bite and swallowed. “Now, My Lord?”

Jaime’s eyebrows raised. _A squire is a squire._

Podrick nodded, stood and paused. He probably had no idea where to get such items, and that was the whole damn point. Pod left on his mission and Jaime sent Brienne a victorious smirk.

She ignored him and his heart beat stronger because of it. It had been months since he tasted her, at the hot spring, and the mere reminder stole the blood away from his stomach. Brienne took a long drink of her cider and set down the tankard with a gentle tap— an odd gesture for a lady raised at sea. Jaime made her nervous. He smiled wider.

In contrast to her actions, a harsh Brienne emerged and ordered, “Up. To your cabin. Sleep it off.” She rose, staring down at him with her typical glare. 

_Yes, ma’am._ “Yes, Lady Brienne,” Jaime answered as he stood, leaning close enough to breathe her in. Her scent both calmed and excited him, but best of all, his nausea subsided— just for a moment. 

Brienne froze. After looking away, she paid him no mind again, brushing by him and leaving him no choice but to follow her. 

They walked through narrow empty halls on tilting floors. He tried his best to ignore the vile scents of seaweed, fish and salt surrounding him. Jaime rested his only hand against walls for support. Meanwhile, Brienne strode ahead of him with ease. His eyes narrowed on her clothes: the same dark, worn gift he gave her long ago. The woman had no need for armor or a sword on the ship, but her typical male garb left a lot to the imagination. _I remember you well enough._

Jaime reached for her hand and yanked her towards her cabin. She ignored her own strength and let him lead her, up until the point he entered her room. She withdrew her hand, inhaled a deep breath. Jaime tried his best to look attractive, but his left hand needed to stabilize his body against the wooden wall. His mind spun into dizziness as drops of water fell from the ceiling in random trickles. Her cabin appeared small, especially with Brienne standing in it, but she had her own small bed and a window— all to herself. Jaime and Podrick stayed among other men in joined quarters. Most crew members slept on the deck.

Shy as ever, Brienne struggled to speak, “Pod…”

Jaime forced a shrug and said, “Bolt the door.”

“You’re not ill?”

 _Not when I’m inside you._ The ship had stilled, and the lack of movement gave Jaime’s body a breath of stable air. Excitement of having Brienne alone after months of traveling and hardship pushed most of the nausea out with only a few quickening pumps of his heart. 

Jaime reached for the door. “You make a man with one hand do it?” he asked. Jaime pushed, closed and bolted the door. He turned to face her, finding her eyes wide and waiting for his attack. _See what else a man with one hand can do to you._

Amidst stifled laughs, they wrestled and undressed. Brienne let Jaime win: kissing and pinning her underneath him on her bed. On an island of linen, they lost themselves in the nakedness of skin. Jaime’s harsh kisses, pushes and pulls were met with Brienne’s soft curves, embraces and whimpers. She spread her thighs for him and allowed him to go down on her for the first time. Twisting underneath his sucks and licks, she tasted of salt and musk. He thrust and curled his fingers inside of her, building her to a climax which threatened to consume him more than her. Her teeth dug into her bottom lip as she came, strangling her moans in her throat. She soaked his lips and he wanted to make her finish again, again and again. Instead, Jaime climbed over her, nestling his hips between her thighs, and almost shuddered as she eagerly claimed his cock. Her hands snaked over him, spreading and forcing him to grind as much skin against hers as possible. Jaime closed his eyes and buried his face against her neck. They tried their best to keep quiet while fucking, full of shhs, muffled moans and repressed passion. When Jaime pulled out, Brienne reached for him: intent and lustful. She stroked his cock, and Jaime came in violent spurts across her chest, forgetting to breathe.

Together, they curled up on the small bed with long legs intertwined. _Just as good._ Jaime leaned his forehead above her ear. Her warmth lulled him into a light and quick sleep— until she moved. She managed a small smile while he blinked awake. Jaime found his tunic against the wall and wiped his seed off of her. A drop of water from the ceiling landed above her navel, beading up against her pale skin. Jaime dropped the tunic and spread his hand over her, trying to commit every part of her to his memory. She breathed and shivered as he marveled over the curve of her stomach, or the small and soft roundedness of her breasts. Her hand cupped his jaw, and he expected displeasure but her eyes conveyed bliss. Even so, her brief eyes squinted, as if he could hear Septa Roelle speaking in her mind. _Don’t listen to her._

Jaime indulged a bit longer, wrapping his good arm around Brienne and brushing his fingers against her cheek. Immortal, with no clothes and a bolted door between them and the world, Jaime spoke his thoughts aloud, “You ever think about running away?” 

Brienne’s once dreamy eyes focused onto him, analyzing his meaning. 

He continued, “We could go back. Right now. Go back to Casterly Rock.” _Back home._ He’d be lying if he said he didn’t want a picture perfect life. He’d be lying if he said he expected any of it. While Brienne ruminated next to him, Jaime continued, “It’s actually quite nice, running away from your past life. I know from experience.” The musky taste of her still lingered on his tongue.

Brienne’s lips quivered and eyes softened, looking away from him. Jaime’s heart raced to hear her answer: yes. _Yes. Yes. Yes._ Brienne took a moment before responding, “I will not run away from an oath.”

Such an on the nose answer, yet neither acceptance or refusal. Jaime smiled, of all things. “I know,” Jaime said.

She offered a subtle, thin curve of her lips. 

Only one woman could simultaneously drown him with rejection and give him life with a smile. 

_Hold me down with a thousand pounds on her shoulders  
Lift me up, despite the stones, rocks and boulders_


	43. Chapter 43

“Looks like Ser Daven, Ser,” Podrick whispered to Jaime and Brienne. They gazed down at a field of red tents, while the three of them sat in their saddles atop a hill in the Riverlands. The situation alarmed Jaime, as he’d rather take control from Kevan than Daven. _It doesn’t matter, I’m Lord of Casterly Rock._ Their horses pulled at their reins while Jaime contemplated how to penetrate the siege without losing a head. A month at sea and a month traveling through the Vale were spent with more… passionate interests than strategizing Sansa’s request. _Call us foolish._ Jaime and Brienne frequently sent Pod to hunt or deal with innkeepers. They’d talk after their quick trysts or kisses, and Brienne had accidentally admitted that Sansa learned of the Lannister siege from Littlefinger. A small pit grew in his stomach, knowing that Sansa still trusted Littlefinger. _Why wouldn’t she?_

Jaime’s horse shifted underneath him, and he glowered. _I can take my army and go home. Right now._ He side eyed Brienne, who kept her chin held level. Nothing scared her, not even the possibility of Daven arresting them. Jaime inhaled a deep breath and loosened his features. If all he had to do was give Sansa an army to take back Winterfell— and then be free to go home— so be it.

_This could be the end of everything_  
_So why don’t we go_  
_Somewhere only we know_

“Ser, My Lady—” Podrick said, straightening his posture.

Jaime glanced as a group of Lannister soldiers cantered over. _Well, this either simplifies or complicates things._ Dressed in Northern leather armor, Jaime didn’t exemplify Lannister, but he roared like a lion just the same.

Lannister guards forgot how to move when Jaime introduced himself. After stammering, they guided Jaime’s group of three into the bleeding sea of red tents. Several women, laughing and topless, ran out between tents while men chased them. Jaime’s wide eyes followed, until Brienne’s scowls interrupted his vision. He held back a smirk and continued riding his horse past tents. Men littered the ground. They weren't dead. They were yawning. With several large campfires and hordes of men, Jaime felt his own sweat beading on his forehead. Jaime frowned as they walked deeper into the siege. _It smells like a hot summer day in Ashlanding where a dog’s dried piss baked into the concrete._

It smelled worse in Daven’s tent. The man’s mane had grown longer and he wore no Kingsguard armor. Several women bustled about the tent to serve wine while Daven looked Jaime up and down with tense brows.

“Jaime Lannister,” Ser Daven said, deepening his scowl, “with a beard.”

Jaime shrugged. “Stubble compared to yours.” 

Daven’s eyes landed on Brienne, behind Jaime. “What a giant in your presence. Female squires now?” Jaime forced a thin smile, but Daven continued, speaking to Brienne, “You should smile more.” 

_How stupid are you?_ Jaime no longer held back his jutting jaw and scowl. Behind him, Brienne stepped closer. 

Daven winced and laughed. “Mayhaps not…” Daven turned his attention back to Jaime, “Heard the Boltons flayed you naked.” 

_Half right._ “Did you cry bitter tears for me?” Jaime tilted his head to the side, knowing Daven’s answer. His cousin wanted him dead, more or less. Jaime lifted his good hand to his sword belt, although, he would be a fool to use it. Brienne was his true sword.

“Half of Lannisport _was_ mourning. The female half. Cersei barely batted an eye.” 

_I’m sure she did._ “You’re far from your bed in King’s Landing, however cold it is,” Jaime said.

“I have no problem keeping my bed warm out here. And where is your bed?”

“Yours,” Jaime said. “Move aside and pack your things.”

Daven’s chuckle made Jaime twinge as he tried to swallow his growing rage. His cousin’s eyes glittered and his mouth opened into a wide smile. Daven said, “For a man stripped of his titles? Jaime Lannister doesn’t even have the power to command a fly to piss off.”

“By whom?” Jaime’s tone turned tight and impatient.

“King Tommen. The Kingslayer is wanted for treason. No surprise. Aye, I would kill you now if Cersei did not want you alive. I discern you are best far away from her, so go back to the North, where you belong.”

 _I hate the North._ Jaime wanted to smash Daven’s face into powder and piss in that powder. Not only was the man jealous of a history Jaime had no part in, fucking his _sister_ , but if Daven was right, Jaime was wanted for treason. He ignored odds stacking against him and said, “Go home. Find your way between Cersei’s snake legs and I will take command. We call it even.”

Daven’s eyes sharpened and scowled. “I have more wits, beard and hands than you, coz.” Daven snarled a glare towards Brienne, “More cunt, as well.” 

Jaime clenched his fists, wishing he still had his golden hand to strike his cousin. 

Daven added, “Something stinks about you. Leave by sundown or I will have to follow Cersei’s orders and drag you by the stump to her pretty feet.”

A page boy guided them out of Ser Daven’s tent and abandoned them as they stood in shining sunlight on flattened grass. It didn’t take years of military experience to recognize that the siege suffered many months of failing. _Hard to siege a castle surrounded by water. Idiots._ Jaime eyed Brienne with creased features. He wished they’d never been sent down south. And here he was, risking his life again for some refugee queen who wasn’t even a queen yet. He wanted to go _home._

“That went well,” Podrick said. 

Jaime stomped forward, too frustrated to think straight. His companions followed him. Past several crimson tents, a large, plump woman dropped a beautiful silk cloth into the dirt at the sight of him. Before Jaime, or Brienne, could lurch back in defense, the older woman wrapped Jaime into a suffocating embrace. Her excited feet stomped on the soiled cloth in the mud. She pulled herself back, clasping Jaime’s cheeks in her hands. Lavender wafted off of her as she smiled with abandon. Jaime frowned as their eyes met, hers green and surrounded by golden hair. _She’s a Lannister._

“You are here to save us all, Jaime.” The older woman tugged at his stump and led him into her tent. “But I am sorry for your loss,” she said as she flapped a curtain to the side.

Jaime entered and glanced around the tent. Silks hung from every corner. A servant rubbed stains of soot out of a crimson banner, to no avail. A leather saddle perched beside a table, although scrolls and spilled ink led Jaime to believe she preferred writing than riding. Her smooth face softened into a genuine grin as she motioned for Jaime to sit down on a plush chair. Jaime cleared his throat and remembered her comment about his loss. He winced and said, “I had a golden hand, once.” 

“Will they make you a golden father, too?” The woman said. 

Jaime missed a breath, having forgotten about his father’s death. 

“Tywin was the loss, I meant,” she said, despondent for only a moment. “I am ashamed to not see you sooner,” she said, “but this war has kept me busy. And you as well, I see. Everyone thought you were dead when word came the Boltons had you, but I knew you came back. If you come back from the Stranger, you can come back from anyone. Are you dressed to sneak into the castle?” She burst at the seams with a smirk.

Jaime looked down at his own clothes with a frown. _Who is this woman?_

“State your business,” a small, thin and bald man said as he entered. He walked over as the woman rolled her eyes.

“Emm, it’s Jaime, my nephew,” she said. 

Stunned, Jaime managed a smile. An aunt. _Please don’t be Daven’s mother._

The old man turned serious and intent. He fumbled through papers on the desk before he clenched a scroll in his fists. Affronted by the pair’s intensity, Jaime stood still while the man said, “This war… It will not serve. Daven means to break my walls, smash in my gates. _My_ castle. I have the decree—”

“Oh, put that fool thing away,” Jaime’s aunt said, “the useless good it does us.” With a smile and a lighter tone, she gazed at Jaime and said, “Jaime will deliver us the castle.”

Jaime took his seat and lifted his chin as the man rambled for several minutes. He knew almost nothing of the Tullys, the decrees or the promises this man complained about. Jaime did, however, pick up on the woman’s name: Genna. 

The spitfire of a woman cut her husband off, “Emm, why don’t you step outside and have a breath of fresh air.”

“A breath of air?” The man asked.

“Or a good long piss, if you prefer. My nephew and I have many _family_ matters to discuss,” Genna said, practically shooing out the old man with her stout fingers. Once the man left, she breathed an obvious sigh of relief and noticed Brienne and Podrick: both as slack jawed as Jaime.

“Take a seat, that’s all we have been doing since we’ve arrived. Wine— My Lady? Ser?” she said to Brienne and Podrick. Jaime half expected both of them to combust at the sudden respect, but they politely declined instead. Genna nodded with a shrug and then faced Jaime, never losing the awe in her eye. It had been a long time since he saw someone so excited to see him. _Mostly everyone hates me._

“This house has gone to shit without your father, brother and you. I fear it’s getting worse,” Genna said, too roused to take a seat.

They spoke for nearly an hour, sometimes getting off topic and talking about worldly travels. She sounded genuinely curious about his years “abroad”. Jaime made sure not to reveal anything suspicious, but he could feel Brienne’s sneers behind him. As his aunt explained her situation, Jaime frowned and listened. Genna, and her Frey husband, claimed Riverrun as theirs. The Blackfish, the very man Sansa wanted, refused to surrender. Genna begged Jaime to kill Edmure, the attainted heir, who sat as a prisoner in a Frey tent with a young son held as a political prisoner elsewhere.

“Pity it wasn’t a girl, but Edmure will never know. Men are fools. Can you help us?” Genna asked after a long gulp of wine.

“As it turns out, I am no longer Lord of Casterly Rock,” Jaime said, and the bitter words coated his tongue as they came out. He wanted to leave, run away— go back home. “How exactly can I help?”

“Do what Tywin would have done,” Genna said, smiling with earnest. “Daven refuses to kill Edmure. He’s growing more impatient by the day, and he will ruin our castle while we wait in these tents for years. Emm and I will be a lady and a lord of rocks in a river before long.”

 _What would Tywin do?_ Jaime drew in a deep breath and answered, “Get me into the castle. I’ll speak with the Blackfish myself.”

Genna frowned.

Jaime continued, “Before that, take me to Edmure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is Genna anyone else's favorite? The piss line is probably one of my favorite lines from the books. Thanks, GRRM.


	44. Chapter 44

Brienne resembled a dark, ripe cherry when Genna led the trio to Edmure’s tent. With his only hand and a look, Jaime implored Brienne's patience and trust. Her eyes fixed towards the man chained and tied to a tent pole. Edmure leaned his head back against his post, not bothering to hide his bitter scowl. _To think someone hates me more than Daven._ Jaime smirked and cocked his head to the side. 

“Consider this a gift,” Jaime said as Genna departed. _How do I convince a man to betray his own house?_

Edmure stared and shook his head.

Based on the several guards and servants’ wide eyes, Jaime assumed they knew his identity. “Heat some bathwater for Lord Tully. Wine and—” Jaime glanced at Edmure, who still narrowed his eyes. “Food as well.”

While Jaime waited for men to bring in a bath and heat water, he avoided Brienne’s and Podrick’s creased brows. Instead, he focused on Edmure’s sunken face. He had dark auburn hair and blue eyes— similar to Catelyn. _He could have been me, if it weren’t for his sister._

When Edmure slipped into the bath, he held back a groan. Dirt sloughed off his body. Not a drop of clear water remained.

Jaime stayed seated and said, “Once you’ve eaten, convince Daven to let you into Riverrun.” Jaime could almost hear Brienne losing her breath in shock. He continued, “What happens after that is up to you.”

“What do you mean?” Edmure asked.

“This siege can end right now if you surrender Riverrun. Enter it, yield it and no one dies. Riverrun still stands. Your uncle will be sent to the Wall if he doesn’t head North. Your wife,” Jaime paused, reminding himself not to reveal his child was a boy, “and child can live their days at Casterly Rock.” _Much better than this pile of shit._

Edmure chuckled and spit onto the ground.

Jaime stood and stepped closer to the bath while Edmure’s eyes followed. “You’ve seen the numbers,” Jaime said. “You’ve seen the ladders, the towers, the trebuchets, the rams. Daven is one smirk away from breaking your gate. Hundreds will die, most of them your own. Castle destroyed.” No light entered or reflected off Edmure’s eyes, and Jaime could tell none of that mattered to the man. Jaime tempted himself into rage and glared at Brienne. _I swore a vow never to take arms against the Tullys._ Jaime winced and glowered at Edmure. _You’d agree if I threatened to send your son with a trebuchet._

Servants filled a goblet with wine and carried it over until Jaime raised his only hand to stop them. After a deep breath, Jaime said, “Do it… for your son.”

Edmure lifted his chin while his mouth quivered.

“Ser Daven wants to go home more than anyone. He doesn’t care where you live, so long as it isn’t here. If you cooperate, you, your wife and _your son_ can live at Casterly Rock.”

Edmure said nothing and stared at tepid water. Orange rays from sunset forced their way inside the tent as Genna trampled in. She gasped and squinted towards Jaime. “He still breathes,” she said.

Jaime nodded. “Yes. And hopefully all of us, too.”

Genna gazed at him while her body turned towards the exit. Her plump hands ushered the three of them outside while she ordered guards to direct them to the entrance of Riverrun. With a wince and wave, Genna said her goodbyes.

Drawn arrows aimed down at Jaime, Podrick and Brienne as they approached the gates. Every crank of the gate made Jaime’s heart pound harder. As the gate lowered, dozens of soldiers surrounded a tall, lean man on the other side. Gray and weathered, he bore a smirk, and it disappeared when Jaime took his first step to cross Riverrun’s moat. Several soldiers around him unsheathed their swords, but the man lifted up a hand to stop them. The man’s brooch, black and golden, twinkled in the firelight.

Jaime approached the man he could only assume to be the Blackfish. He stood taller than Jaime expected, and his eyes remained in a permanent, wrinkled scowl. Behind Jaime, Brienne and Podrick, the gate cranked up. _If I’m wrong…_

“Kingslayer,” Blackfish said, almost sending Jaime into a temper. Blackfish inclined his head towards Brienne, then back to Jaime with a rather bored expression.

“Blackfish. You know Brienne of Tarth,” Jaime said.

“As I recall, you both promised Catelyn her daughters in return for your freedom. Yet I do not see them.”

“Sansa is safe. Arya is… somewhere,“ Jaime said.

Blackfish erupted into a rude, almost gagging sound. “Pity. I have your old cell available in the yard, should you want to resume captivity. Fresh rushes on the floor.” He narrowed his eyes on Brienne again. 

_Don’t bring her into this, she’s not good at politics._ Jaime felt his heart tightening. “How thoughtful and cordial of you, but I prefer the comforts of my bed.”

“And where is that bed? While Catelyn enjoys the comfort of her grave.”

“I had no part in Lady Cat—”

“And you have no part with the Lannisters, either, I’m afraid. Your _queen_ wants your head. I am disappointed to see you, Brienne of Tarth, following this lost cub.”

Jaime clenched his jaw and pressed his lips into a thin line. He had zero leverage and almost no patience left. _This is not going well._ His eyes searched around, noticing hundreds of men preparing defense with archery, oil and supplies. A wolf banner, however, caught Jaime’s attention. “Why are direwolf banners above your walls? Ride your army up North where they belong.”

Blackfish scoffed. “Not as blind as you are maimed. And what, I trust Ser Daven _and_ the Freys to let us pass? For all I know, this is some ploy from your sister. I can out-wait you all. We have enough provisions for two more years.”

Losing his composure, Jaime sharpened his eyes at the man, standing as tall as him. “I will march over to her right now and demand the end of this siege if it means you’ll join us in the North.”

“Us? You’re dressed in Northern garb, but that doesn’t make a cat into a wolf.”

The man’s stubbornness stung. Jaime’s phantom fingers twitched. “Are there any terms you will accept?”

“From you?” Blackfish shrugged. “No.”

“Why did you even agree to meet with me?”

“I wanted to see this stump of yours and hear whatever excuses you cared to offer up for your latest enormities. They were feebler than I’d hoped. You always disappoint, Kingslayer.”

Jaime froze.

_You felt the gravity of temper grace_  
_Falling into empty space_  
_No one there to catch you in their arms_

Brienne stepped forward, and before Jaime quieted her, she asked. “Will you hear Lady Sansa, Ser?” Brienne held out the scroll, written by Sansa.

Blackfish turned away, walking upstream through a sea of soldiers. Stubborn as him, Brienne followed him and pushed past Jaime. Podrick, the runt of the pack, struggled to keep up with them. Eyes of enemy soldiers honed in on him, so Jaime leapt forward to pursue Brienne, Blackfish and Podrick. They climbed stairs to the battlement, and Brienne lumbered behind the Blackfish. 

Brienne extended the letter again, and Blackfish’s stubbornness subsided long enough to reach and read the script. Jaime kept his distance, watching the old man’s eyes flying through Sansa’s words. Once finished, he glanced up at Brienne with straightening shoulders. 

“Who goes there?!” someone said.

Everyone turned their attention to the guard who shouted at the gate entrance. The Blackfish rushed to the edge and grumbled out a hoarse noise. “No, leave him,” he said, now marching over to the gatekeeper. 

Jaime stood close to the wall, and listened to the Blackfish perfectly describe Edmures’s plan— Jaime’s plan. The guard and the Blackfish bickered. _Smart, but stubborn. Damn him._

From below, they heard Edmure say again, “I demand entry.”

The gatekeeper said, “Lower the drawbridge and open the gate—”

“I will have your head before I surrender Riverrun,” Blackfish said as he pulled out his sword. 

“You are not lord of this castle, _My Lord_.”

The seconds long standoff felt like a lifetime, and it ended with Blackfish walking away and the gate drawn up. Brienne, frowning and fidgeting, followed Blackfish down to the entrance of the castle. Jaime and Podrick followed her. Edmure, holding a torch, stared across the yard at Blackfish before ascending to the battlement. Jaime hoped Daven would thank him for simplifying the siege, but at the very worst, he’d end up a prisoner of Cersei. Jaime eyed Brienne, knowing she’d likely die than let him be imprisoned by his own house. 

Jaime heard his own army marching forward, and a small whisper inside of him begged him to command them. _They’ll never follow a Kingslayer._ Brienne’s tight grip pulled Jaime into the shadows. He struggled to walk as they stumbled deeper into the castle. Surrounded by moist bricked walls, the air smelled of rancid mold and must. With an echo, Jaime heard Blackfish’s voice, “I know your father, good man. You don’t need more Lannisters surrounding you than you already have. Can you swim in armor?”

“It is light armor, Ser, yes,” Brienne voice replied, and her hand tightened on Jaime’s arm. Podrick followed.

They reached the bottom of a hallway, opening to a slow river under the castle. Its water was black as death. Brienne let go of Jaime while he frowned.

“A shame the Kingslayer lost his white armor,” Blackfish said, sheathing a dagger in his swordbelt. “His armor would sink faster than his honor.” Blackfish motioned for a guard to pull on a rope. “Open the gate— slightly. Now,” turning to Brienne, he said, “it is only open at the bottom. Swim out and as far as your lungs will take you, then surface.”

“Are you coming with us, Ser?” Brienne asked.

Blackfish scoffed and smiled, tossing away any useless weight from him. “Not with that plague of yours.”

Jaime sneered. _Tasteful man._

The four of them plunged into Riverrun’s waters. An instant chill seeped through boiled leather as Jaime’s skin and muscles tightened. Brienne inhaled deep breaths as they stayed afloat. Podrick’s face twitched and eyes blinked. Blackfish closed his eyes, smiled, inhaled a full breath of air and submerged himself under the dark water. Brienne’s hand found Jaime’s, and with a mutual nod, they breathed in and dove under together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Book Spoiler: Blackfish escapes Riverrun in the books. Personally, I hope he finds Stoneheart, Jaime and Brienne in the books. Anyway, I digress. Expect more Blackfish because I refuse to kill him like D+D did.


	45. Chapter 45

Down the river, they went their separate ways. While Brienne, Jaime and Podrick had an advantage in numbers, foreign land confused them. The Blackfish, however, swam into the dark night without a squish or a splash. Drenched in water, Jaime still felt more warm and at home in the Riverlands than the North. Neither him nor Brienne achieved their goal to gather armies for Sansa, and Jaime half tempted himself to drag the lot of them back to Riverrun: for their horses, their armies… and to escape home. Jaime didn’t need to ask to know Brienne’s answer. She swore a vow to protect Sansa. Without armies, they needed to think of a better way to help Sansa take back Winterfell.

Quiet Podrick watched as they debated stealing new horses or buying new horses. Jaime resented leaving her bay mare and Brienne disliked his outbursts. Their argument ended when Brienne unsheathed her sword. Jaime bit his own tongue and yielded, scowling as Podrick spent their last coins to purchase three aging horses. Their pockets, full of holes and empty of coin, meant they needed to ride to the North on foot. It would take them many weeks.

One night, north of the river while Jaime stayed watch by their camp, he swore he saw a lone cloaked woman walking through the forest. The full moon illuminated her long, curly dark hair, and Jaime convinced himself he imagined the same fateful witch from the God’s Eye island. Brienne and Podrick snored behind him, and by the time Jaime remembered the cryptic words she spoke to him, she was gone.

_Your past becomes your future. Your love awaits you at the northern weirwood. You will kill something you’ve lost. Marry the Queen, but wear no crown. You will make music that brings tears to your eyes. You will return home._

_Home._ He headed the wrong way.

During their months of travel, Brienne and Jaime shared short gazes and smiles instead of skin, and it was more than enough to satisfy him. Pod and Jaime hunted along the way and camped near the river. Crickets serenaded them asleep and fires warmed their five hands. Brienne fished while the boys sparred before sundown. Brienne watched them fight more than the line, and she lost several bites because of it. She laughed at their faults in swordplay, and it got to the point that Pod and Jaime botched their blocks and strikes just to rouse a reaction out of her. When Brienne sparred, however, Podrick rolled his shoulders, stretched his muscles and trained until bruises spread and blistered ripened.

To avoid traveling through the Twins, they stopped through Seagard. Jaime remembered vacationing there as a child and taking Tyrion to a dancing club when he turned of age— his brother embarrassed him with awkward dances. _I hope Tyrion’s okay. I hope both of them are okay…_ Jaime’s eyes lifted and lost themselves gazing at ancient architecture. No one recognized Jaime, dressed in Northern clothing and bearded. When Podrick and Brienne kept their thoughts and words to themselves, Jaime smiled his way through meeting and talking with cooks and marketers on the street. His grin melted away when words danced that a Stark held Winterfell, and the Boltons were now an extinct house.

Jaime rushed to Brienne and Podrick, who sat on cobble-stoned steps eating flaked trout. “Did you hear?” Jaime asked.

Both Podrick and Brienne frowned with full mouths.

“Sansa took Winterfell. The Boltons are dead,” Jaime said, unable to hide a creeping smile on his face.

Brienne scowled deeper as she stood, glaring down at Jaime. Pod shuffled up, swallowed his food and wiped off crumbs on his thighs.

“Get the horses ready, Pod. We can ride through the Moat. Might as well start now,” Brienne said while Jaime’s mouth fell open.

Pod nodded and slipped between them, unable to take their growing tension with him.

“Do you need your ears cleaned?” Jaime asked, earning him a heated glare. “I just said she _has_ Winterfell. She’s safe. We’re done. Let’s ride back to Casterly Rock or— Seven Hells, stay here.”

Brienne waited for him to finish and followed his ramble with her sneer. She said, “I am at Sansa’s service. Your ears need far better cleaning than mine.”

Jaime flinched while his lips pressed into a tight line. “Till when?” Jaime asked, refusing to hide his resentment. “Till we’re old, and gray and dead?”

“Until she says I am done,” Brienne said, turning around to grab a portion of fish from the cobbled steps. Brienne let out a small sigh and handed the fish forward. “Eat your fish. We leave as soon as you're done,” she said.

Jaime sent her a mental glower as she walked away. _I can think of something better._ He turned around and stormed deeper into the market, drowning himself in a murmuring mass of people. He traded his mouth watering lunch for a scroll and a messenger pigeon. After writing in poor left-handed writing, Jaime asked for the message to fly to Tarth. 

As the man prepped the leg of the pigeon, he asked, “And reply sent to…”

_Oh, shit._ Jaime clenched his fist, released it and replied, “To fucking Winterfell.”

It took many weeks to reach Winterfell. When they arrived, Stark banners flapped against its dark walls. Jaime tucked his chin lower to his chest, as he expected a cold welcome. Everything grayed over, except Brienne’s eyes. He intended to stay close to them. Smoke and oil confronted them as they walked their horses through Winterfell’s gates, past mounds of jagged and destroyed weapons and wood from the Bolton’s last battle. 

Northern guards held the three of them up, waiting for Sansa or Jon to greet them. After dismounting their horses, Sansa appeared, dressed in a dark, thick gown and fur cloak. To his surprise, she smiled as she approached them.

“Lady Brienne, Podrick—” Sansa said, reaching out to hold Brienne’s hand in a brief grip. Sansa looked up at Jaime while he held his breath. “Ser Jaime,” she said as her smile weakened.

Jaime forced a grin and said, “I apologize, My Lady, for arriving empty handed.” He lifted his stump.

Sansa narrowed her eyes as a faint smile returned. If she found his joke funny, she hid it well. Brienne closed her eyes, likely wanting to wring her hands around Jaime’s neck.

“I would have known if your army marched North. I learned too late that you were stripped of your titles,” Sansa clasped her hands in front of her and jetted out her chin. “I’m afraid I don’t know what to call you,” Sansa said, tilting her head to the side.

Jaime held his head high and opened his mouth, but the sight of Blackfish stopped him. Frowning, Jaime asked, “How... are you...”

Blackfish sneered and let out a single scoff. Eye level with Jaime, the old man shrugged. “I swim faster.”

Sansa reached for her uncle’s arm, as if to calm him. Walking towards the left, Sansa spoke to Brienne, “Come, The King in the North has called a meeting.”

Brienne, Jaime and Podrick frowned as they followed. _King in the North?_

Jaime entered a large, dim hall, reeking of hot breath and fire smoke. Dozens and dozens of Northerners stuffed their way onto benches or leaned against cold walls and frost covered windows. Even with a thick beard and black clothes, Jaime refused to believe he fit in— and Blackfish’s stretched hand against his chest proved it. 

“Kingslayers sit in the back or they don’t sit at all,” Blackfish said.

Jaime tightened his glare at the old man as several other curious eyes watched them both. Distance between Jaime and Brienne increased as she walked forward with Podrick and Sansa. 

Jaime stood still— and stepped back, retreating to the farthest wall. Beyond mountains of balding men, Jon sat at the center of the head table. Sansa took her place beside him as Jon rambled about dragonglass. Brienne looked back for Jaime, but Jon’s request to train women fighters stole her attention. Jaime listened, only half believing Jon’s story about a _dead_ army marching North of the Wall. Despite choosing to live in a historic world, Jaime considered the men and minds around him foolish. Jon made it sound like the enemy would consume every living soul— and clearly, that didn’t happen, as Jaime came from the future.

Jon’s rally speech turned into a tense conversation when Jon mentioned castles. After a man asked to tear them down, Sansa’s voice echoed through the hall, suggesting the castles be given to new families. Agreement erupted from the sea of men. Though blurry, Jaime could see hesitation from Jon, who stared down at her. Jon refuted her request, as politely as a king could, and Sansa said no more. _Growing, but not a real queen yet._

Jon did not fear disagreement, and he continued to explain his reasoning. Sansa appeared cold, distant and lost in her thoughts while Jon ushered two children to pledge their loyalty. _I can’t forget a name like Karstark._ The hollering died down into a deafening silence as an unknown man yanked Jaime’s arm towards the center of the hall.

“Might I ask why _this_ one is here?” the man said, tossing Jaime into the center of the hall. Jaime caught himself from falling and scowled at the man, who wore silver plated armor with a clean shaven face. Jaime looked more Northern than him. The man continued, “The Kingslayer. Back to life and in the North. Lannisters cannot be trusted—” 

Under pressure, Jaime’s pulled back on the man’s grip and glowered. He’d never seen so much hate before. His fingers, both real and imagined, itched and tingled with the idea of defending himself. Aware of his surroundings, Jaime scanned around him. Everyone contorted their ugly faces into knives, glaring at him as if he murdered their entire country. The realization chilled him: he stood amidst enemies. 

Chairs scooted across the floor as people stood in protest, shouting and yelling for Jaime’s head. Jaime met eyes with Brienne, whose hands clenched into the sleeves of her arms.

Jon raised his voice and said, “Yesterday’s war is done.”

“Cersei still sits on the Iron Throne—” someone said. Jaime frowned. _Cersei is on the Iron Throne?_ His scowl deepened as several other people gave half-decent reasons to get rid of him.

_And I don’t want the world to see me_   
_‘Cause I don’t think that they’d understand_   
_When everything’s meant to be broken_   
_I just want you to know who I am_

Jon shook his head and pointed to Jaime, “This man rode up to save Sansa from the Boltons. He spent months keeping her from harm. When Sansa asked him for his men, he went willingly. He could have gone to Cersei. He chose to come here.”

Tight breaths flared through Jaime’s nose.

“He’s a welcome guest, until I say otherwise,” Jon said, and he looked at Jaime with only a vague sense of support. Jaime nodded and held back the impulse to curse at each and every asshole judging him.

Once the meeting adjourned, Brienne stood as a tall weed in a field of grass— but she was too far away to reach. No one moved for him. Jaime remained grid locked against the wall while Northerners exited. Jaime held his breath when Sansa, Brienne and Podrick spoke without him. He swallowed back a sigh when Brienne and Podrick turned to leave with Jon while Sansa stepped towards Jaime.

“This scroll is addressed to you,” Sansa said, holding out her gloved hand with a small, rolled slip of paper. 

_Selwyn?_ In an instant, Jaime snatched the piece and tore at the ends with his one awkward hand. Sansa smirked and exited while Jaime turned to the wall and splayed out the scroll with the end of his stump and fingers. Selwyn only wrote two words to Jaime’s request:

“Kingslayer,  
No.”


	46. Chapter 46

Around Jaime, people ground wheat, hammered armor or assembled weapons. Jaime stood alone, gazing from above on the decks of Winterfell. He chuckled to himself at the idea of fighting a “dead army” from beyond the Wall. _They’re probably just Free Folk._ He had only been back a week, and if he wanted to avoid people’s spit landing on his smirking face, he needed to perch higher. No fire warmed him, but interacting with Northern men or Blackfish chilled him far quicker than winter air. His eyes, ears and heart watched Brienne and Podrick spar in the yard below. 

Jaime glowered. Having lived in the past for three years, he knew skipping steps and jumping through loopholes were discouraged. Brienne and Jaime had already been married, though no one knew. He cared not to reveal their forced marriage, or explain to her father how he came to steal her maidenhead. Waves crashed in Jaime’s mind as he pictured home: his ultimate goal. In order to take Brienne with him, he needed Sansa to dismiss her. _What a better time to dismiss a lady when she’s newly wed?_ Jaime needed and intended to marry Brienne… _again._ Politics and a lack of her father’s approval were his current challenges. _If Selwyn approves, Sansa approves, and Sansa dismisses her, we’re free to go home._ Jaime ignored Casterly Rock wasn’t _his_ home at all, because if he could rise up from the dead and become a lord— he could do it all again.

_Beauty I’d always missed_   
_With these eyes before_   
_Just what the truth is_   
_I can’t say any more_

“I heard she beat the Hound in single combat,” said a smooth voice, and Jaime glanced to see Littlefinger. Jaime tightened his eyes as Littlefinger stepped nearer, close enough for Jaime to smell mint on his breath. 

_Fuck you. For Boltons and speaking about Brienne._ Jaime looked away, refusing to give the man the courtesy of his gaze. “She beats anyone in her way,” Jaime said. 

Littlefinger continued gazing down at Brienne, setting both of his hands on wooden handrail. Through Jaime's periphery, he watched Littlefinger's mouth alternated between a smirk and a smile. “She’s a very impressive woman,” Littlefinger said.

Jaime turned a glare towards him and said, “She could defend this entire castle by herself. In fact, she already has.” Jaime frowned, unwilling to let this man’s betrayal go. “When you left us with the Boltons, she saved us. And where were you?”

“Gone, at the urgent request of your sister… who still wants your head,” Littlefinger said, remaining calm. 

_Which head?_

Littlefinger smiled, and Jaime replied with a fake grin. Littlefinger continued, “Sansa’s fate is similar, and she was safer with the Boltons than your sister—”

“She already survived Cersei,” Jaime said, in no mood for his usual sarcastic remarks. “She is a child. She barely escaped with her life and a lifetime of trauma.”

Littlefinger held Jaime’s eye contact for a moment and said, "I heard Cersei burned the Great Sept. Sparrows, gone. Tyrells, gone. King Tommen—” Littlefinger paused, “killed by his own mother, and now, she is Queen of the Realm. Sansa would have melted away, too, if she hadn't been here with you."

Jaime scowled as his heart ached. _Tommen? Killed?_ After closing his eyes, Jaime clenched the railing with his fist. "And where are you in all this? You think marrying Sansa to a Bolton would help her?"

"I made a mistake trusting a Bolton. But I succeeded by trusting you.” Littlefinger paused. "Like you, I am not from here. And like you, I pledge my loyalty to Sansa. I brought the Knights of the Vale to rescue her brother in battle. You could give your other hand to pledge loyalty to her and they would all still despise you." Littlefinger peered around the yard, and Jaime’s eyes followed, looking at every Northerner. Littlefinger was right. Littlefinger shrugged and shook his head, saying, "No offence, My Lord, but why wouldn't they? You're a thousand leagues from home, with a sister on the Iron Throne, and you support a Stark. Your motives scare others. Your motives inspire me."

Jaime frowned. _You think I want to stay here?_

“It will take time for them to accept you, Lord Jaime. It may never happen, and that makes alliances and protection more important.”

Jaime shook his head. “What are you suggesting?”

“Keep your eyes peeled. You never know what lies beyond a corner, or when a Northerner decides to take your head. Take each step carefully, as one of the most important men in Westeros.”

Ser Davos, one of Stannis’ previous advisors, rounded the corner and faced both of them. His mouth opened at the sight of them before his eyes focused on Jaime. Davos said, “Ser Jaime— there’s a scroll.” 

Jaime’s heart strangled within itself. He had sent another raven to Selwyn a day prior… _He couldn’t have replied so quickly._ Beside him, Littlefinger clasped his hands in front of him and turned away, gazing out into the yard. Davos continued in his thick accent and said, “It’s from a man named Tyrion.”

Forgetting everything else, Jaime scrambled to follow Davos, leaving Littlefinger behind. Through widening hallways, they arrived to Sansa, Blackfish and Jon around a fire pit. Sansa blinked and gazed away while Jon held up a scroll in his hands. His brown eyes lifted up and landed on Jaime. Jon breathed in deeper and stepped closer to Jaime, stretching out his arm to hand off the scroll. “You know him better than any of us, what do you think?” Jon asked.

Jaime winced and looked down at the scroll in his left hand. _I can’t read with one hand._ Davos reached over and shared the scroll with him, pulling out one end while Jaime held the other. Jaime’s stomach heaved as he read the words. Tyrion asked for support, and he served as Queen Daenerys Targaryen’s hand on Dragonstone— with three fully grown dragons. _Shit._ Jaime squeezed the paper scroll in his tight hand, unable to hold back his souring rage. _I let him go and he finds three dragons?_ Jaime knew the power of dragons. His spine tensed at the thought of Ashlanding. _I can’t tell them, not now._

Jon’s intent eyes glared at him, waiting for a response. 

“You think it’s him?” Sansa asked Jaime.

Jaime stumbled. Davos let go of the scroll and it snapped in Jaime’s hand.

“I know it’s him,” Jon said.

Jaime remained silent while Davos said, “Dragons breathe fire.” 

“You’re not suggesting Jon meet with her?” Sansa asked.

“No. Too dangerous. But, what if the army of the dead makes it past the Wall? Do we have enough men to fight them?” Davos asked.

“I’ll go,” Jaime said. _If I can convince Tyrion to walk away from her—_

“And never come back alive,” Sansa said. “She hasn’t forgotten you killed her father.”

_I’ve forgotten._ Jaime closed his eyes while everyone silenced. _I should tell them._ Davos and Jon continued to talk, but Jaime could not listen. _If I tell them, they’ll want to know how I know._ Jaime winced and walked to the edge of the deck, gazing into the snow filled yard. Brienne and Podrick walked through an archway, glancing around until their eyes settled above at the group on the deck. Brienne smiled, probably from the sight alone of Jaime speaking with others. Jaime managed a half smile. _No one is kinder than you._

When Jon called a meeting with all of the lords and ladies, one week later, Jon handed multiple scrolls throughout the Great Hall. Jaime secluded himself to shadows, tilting his ear closer towards Jon’s booming voice. Everyone’s hatred of his own Lannister name left him standing on heaps of spent ash beneath his feet. He didn’t know what he despised more: the country or its people. Jon spoke of Cersei’s threats, and dozens of eyes snapped to Jaime with bared teeth. Jaime’s lips curved into a smirk while Jon continued speaking— now about dragonglass. All eyes left Jaime when Jon said, “I’m going to accept.”

Groans of disapproval deafened the room as Jon explained his reasoning. He claimed to need dragonglass and allies. _This guy almost has more balls than me._

Sansa’s mouth twitched as she fidgeted in her seat, surprised by his answer. “Have you forgotten what happened to our grandfather?” Sansa said. She scowled at her brother. “The Mad King invited him to King’s Landing and roasted him alive. She is here to reclaim the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdoms, the North is one of those. This isn’t an invitation, it’s a trap.”

Arguments danced back and forth. Jaime’s smile dropped as chaos ensued.

Another man jumped up to defend Sansa and said, “A Targaryen cannot be trusted. Nor can a Lannister.”

Jaime blinked away, settling his eyes on Littlefinger, who leaned against a wall beside the head table. _He’s right. I can lose my head at any moment._

“You’re abandoning your people, you’re abandoning your home,” Sansa said.

Jon, standing in the middle of the room, looked at Sansa and said, “I’m leaving both in good hands.”

“Whose?” Sansa asked.

Shouts no longer filled the air, and everyone listened to his answer. “Yours.” Jon said.

Sansa’s breath lodged in her throat. Her eyes, unable to stay still, glanced around her while the rest of her body petrified.

Jon said to Sansa, “You're the only Stark in Winterfell. Until I return, the North is yours.”


	47. Chapter 47

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don't already know, I love angst. It's going to build a bit before one of the story's climaxes.

Jaime’s foot refused to stop tapping as he retired to his chambers for the evening. Wind bustled outside his small window. _At least a small room heats faster._ Jaime’s eyes focused on the fire, enough to the point flames flickered his eyes when he looked to his door. Someone knocked against it, and Jaime stood. Without waiting for Jaime’s invitation, the door had already opened. Winterfell’s maester offered a fake smile and said, “A raven from Tarth.”

Frowning, Jaime stepped forward and snatched the scroll. He glanced down to see the scroll had already been opened, but the maester left before Jaime could assault him with a glare. 

Jaime rushed to his hearth and spread out the scroll with his stump and good hand. It read,  
“Kingslayer,  
No, as I told you before.”

“Fucking shit!” Jaime said as he threw down the scroll. _Say yes, you old git!_

Instead of slamming the remainder of his room’s logs into the fire, Jaime rushed out of his room to find the maester. Through winding halls and encroaching darkness, he found the man, and Jaime demanded to prepare and send another letter. All previous two letters had been kept brief due to Jaime’s scribbled left handed writing. This time, Jaime swore to write a novel if it persuaded Selwyn’s answer. 

_It certainly feels like I’m writing a novel._ Jaime stretched his neck by rolling it to each side, settling into one of the maester’s seats. Stumps couldn’t do much but assist, and Jaime propped open his blank scroll by pressing his maimed forearm into one corner and a small book on its opposite end. Jaime breathed through each stroke, unable to avoid streaking edges of his hand through half-dried ink. His left hand smeared across the blank scroll, ruining its perfection. _Only the words matter._ Eager blows between his lips helped to dry the dark ink. Jaime wrote himself and his soul on paper for the maester to send.

Jaime didn’t care when the maester’s eyes squinted and smirked as he read the scroll, but Jaime _did_ mind when the maester said, “Illegible.” His judging eyes peered through scraggly, white eyebrow hairs.

“Excuse me?” Jaime asked, imagining his only hand choking the man to death.

“It is ille—”

“I’ll write it again,” Jaime said, snatching the scroll to start again. He closed his eyes, picturing his right hand, in old handwriting, composing his emotions onto paper. _My hand._ He felt it. He felt his right hand wielding each and every piano key, one by one. He felt his right hand gripping a hilt of a sword. He felt his right hand embracing, grasping and fucking Brienne. It twitched. When he opened his eyes, his right hand was still gone. Beside the blank scroll, his left hand— only hand— covered in black and withered. _I don’t have any other choice._

With a deep breath, Jaime started again. His hand ached and begged him to stop, but he persisted, trembling through every letter. To him, it appeared even more of a child’s poor attempt at writing. However, when he handed it to the maester, it was wrapped and accepted. Jaime’s hand throbbed.

Jaime’s exhausted mind fought with his feet, carrying him away from his chambers and to the dining hall. _Why am I even doing this?_ Jaime entered the nearly empty room, confronted by overwhelming clouds of ale and yeast. 

Brienne’s slouching posture straightened when she saw Jaime. Drawn to her, Jaime stepped closer and sat across from her. Her fingers clenched around her wooden bowl as she gawked at him. Her eyes left his and returned within a second. “Your hand,” she said.

Jaime lifted his stump and said, “I know, I lost it somewhere.”

A half smile burst from Brienne’s lips, still wet from eating. “I meant—”

“I know what you meant,” Jaime said, leaning closer. Brienne reclined back as he said, “I’m fine.” Jaime stretched his pulsing hand against the table, and he swore he heard it creaking. “Are you done? For the night?”

Brienne averted her eyes away for a moment, observing other people in the hall. She took her time to respond. They hadn’t shared many moments alone, let alone doing what they pleased. She had been training or guarding every day since they returned. Brienne’s eyes faced Jaime as she nodded. 

Jaime held back a smile, realizing she hadn’t been wearing armor either. Several men coughed and spit from the far corner of the hall. While Jaime’s grin disappeared, he convinced himself not to look at them. Both Jaime and Brienne knew their sputum was meant for him.

Brienne forced a smile and said, “They will get used to you.”

Jaime didn’t believe her words, but he did believe her compassion. Of all the people to understand being an outcast, Brienne understood him the most. Even so, she fit in well in the North. Men respected her— admired her— and she deserved every bit of it. After a deep breath and with quiet words, Jaime said, “I only care what you think.”

Brienne wavered in her seat while her lips opened, closed and opened again while her tongue licked them. 

Her reaction goaded him to cock his head to the side and smirk. He refused to hide his natural charm over her.

She closed her mouth as it softened into an innocent smile— one Jaime loved. Doors opened, and loud, drinking men stumbled inside. Brienne’s smile vanished. 

Jaime wasn’t ready to say goodbye, and he hoped neither was she. “Come on,” Jaime said, standing. “I have something to show you.”

Together, they walked through freezing and electric air. Space filled between them as they walked over crunching snow. Every muscle and instinct in Jaime’s body demanded him to attack her, but Brienne’s quickening breath and searching eyes feared discovery. _Kingslayer’s whore._

Winterfell resembled a ghost town at night, as most people huddled indoors and prepped their fires. A few guards sprinkled here and there, and many guards posted on all sides of battlements. Brienne followed Jaime’s lead, a leisurely walk past buildings to escape the cold. Her eyes asked where they were going, but she knew him well enough to know there was no point asking— he never planned on telling her. _I’ll show you._

They walked past the sept, the small thing, and Jaime disguised his smile by rubbing his hand across his beard and chin. _Soon._ Jaime continued, leading them beyond the armory and towards the North gate. Brienne stifled a scream when Jaime yanked her behind a stone pillar to hide from guards. 

“Here?” she whispered, anger evident in her tone.

Jaime smirked and shook his head. His hand pulled her through a space between walls, and they emerged on the other side. Together, they stood in front of a large glass house. Its roof almost glittered under the moonlight and stars. Its dark, glass walls bore no resemblance to its lush green and yellow panels in the daytime. Tall enough to accommodate trees, the glass house spread out along Winterfell’s far corner. He had seen this greenhouse during his walks around Winterfell, but never broke in. Until now. Jaime released a wide smile and said, “Here.” 

Jaime nodded to himself and stepped towards its entrance, ignoring any potential protests from Brienne. He opened an unlocked door and entered a different world— one full of sweltering air, moist soil and swirling energy. Even in the darkness of night, humidity and heat inclined Jaime to take off his fur cloak. As he wiggled out of it and flung it over his right arm, Brienne, more hesitant, followed behind him. Bushes, as tall as him, reminded him of summer. Trees dripped water from above them as they meandered through soft paths of mulch and earth. They were no longer in an arctic, but a verdant garden at night. Crickets sang while Jaime searched for any guards or people. Brienne huddled closely behind.

They came across a large clearing, where several bushes their height claimed their stake in the ground. Jaime approached one and reached out. A thorn pressed and pinched against his skin. Rose bushes. His eyes surveyed over them. None bloomed. He reached back for Brienne’s hand, which she accepted, and her quick pulse thumped through her wrist.

Jaime continued to hold Brienne’s hand as he pushed forward, through paths, towers and hills of stretching foliage. A small, singular and ugly stone bench caught his eye— resting underneath a tree ripe with lemons. _Perfect._ Jaime tugged Brienne alongside him. She dug her heels into the ground, for a moment, and stood still while Jaime sat on his new bench.

Brienne stared at him.

“Sit,” Jaime said, motioning for her to sit on his lap.

Brienne frowned and shook her head in quick bursts.

“Sit,” he said again.

Stubborn words escaped her when she said, “I’m too—”

Jaime pulled her onto him, impatient with her. He waited so long for a moment alone, and he didn’t want to waste it squabbling. “I’m strong enough,” Jaime said, forcing her weight onto him. Her thighs straddled him while his arms stretched around her back. Jaime feasted his eyes upon her, trying his best to see Brienne’s face in the filtered light. Above them, stars sprinkled green through thick glass. Jaime’s only regret was that he wouldn’t be able to see her blush.

_Gold on your fingertips_  
_Fingertips against my cheek_  
_Gold leaf across your lips_  
_Kiss me until I can’t speak_

Brienne looked down until Jaime squeezed her closer. Her eyes snapped and stared into his. Inside her heart, a war resumed: honor versus love. The weight of her body, affection and influence drove him incapable of ignoring temptation. Jaime stretched up to kiss her. Brienne allowed him, and their soft, gentle kiss turned passionate and urgent within a few forgotten breaths. Through heated hands, they pushed their trousers down, and Jaime seized her back onto his lap. She straddled him for the first time, and Brienne’s doubting eyes glazed over as she sank onto his cock. Jaime held her closely in body and mind, grunting and kissing against hot skin on her neck. Brienne tried riding him— bouncing and grinding— Jaime loved every second of it— until Brienne leaned too far back and brought both of them down with her.

Brienne’s back crashed to the ground, followed by both of them laughing like idiots. More powerful than time, passion engrossed them. Jaime adapted, trailing kisses down Brienne’s body until he crawled under her robes with eager mouth and sore fingers. She reached down, entangling her fingers in his hair— gripping and clenching him as she cried out in pleasure. As she came down, spent and twisting on soil, Jaime hovered over her. Compelled for his own release, Jaime thrust his cock into her as she writhed and arched into him. He mirrored her every move. As a warrior, she urged him to fuck her roughly with every claw at his skin or tug of her thighs. And yet, when she relaxed or whimpered, he slowed down to kiss, breathe or whisper into her ear while she stroked herself between their bodies. She swelled, dripped and came around him, and Jaime savored it just long enough to the point of bursting. Mid-thrust, almost drowning inside of her, he pulled out to spill on her bare upper thigh amidst a muffled roar.

_Fuck._

They cuddled amidst breathless sweat and soil— something they both enjoyed— and only for a few minutes.

Jaime walked back beside Brienne warm and floating, unable to think of the last time he felt so… relieved. He whistled, and Brienne giggled. They both quieted as they stepped past guards on their way back to the main castle. Jaime dusted any last remaining bits of dirt and soil on his cloak and clothes while Brienne walked ahead of him. Halfway through the door, she turned and sent Jaime a small smile. Jaime nodded his goodbye, hearing his own heart lament as she closed the door.

He cleared his throat and stepped forward, planning to enter a different door. 

“Kingslayer!”

Jaime stopped.

Several men approached, faces vicious enough to kill. Jaime breathed out a deep exhale and smiled. _Nothing can ruin how I’m feeling._ He stood a bit taller and said, “A bit late for me to train squires.”

Jaime turned to continue walking, but the sound of them unsheathing their swords stopped him. _Idle threat._

“Grab him,” one man said.

Jaime side eyed in time to send them a scowl, but their hands and swords had already pressed into his chest, belly and back. Jaime tensed, his throat tight enough to snap.

“Bring him to Ser Davos.”


	48. Chapter 48

Men pushed and yanked Jaime into a dim and large room. Grave torch light echoed against hanging hundreds of bows, arrows and weapons fixed upon the room’s walls. Jaime despised the pervading stench of pine, as it lingered everywhere in Winterfell. Except, in here, a room of war, trees blended with sharp notes of rust. Jaime rattled his way closer to a wall, reaching his left hand behind one of the men to— hopefully— grip a sword and rain steel on them. _A fight they want, a fight they’ll get._

Hands heaved him backwards, towards the center of the room. Feet slammed into his calves while men forced him to his knees. Jaime grunted and looked at the guards with pursed, smirked lips. “You’re so afraid of me you brought me to an armory? Not very smart, are you?” 

Heavy steps entered the room, and Jaime glanced away to see Davos’ mountainous brows creased and furrowed. Behind him, Blackfish followed, his eyes almost squashed closed. “Where’s Jon?” Blackfish asked, crossing his arms. Servants placed torches into their holders behind him.

_Great._ Jaime straightened his posture. 

“Cleaning up,” Davos said. He glanced to the entrance of the room while Littlefinger stepped inside, hands clasped in front of him. He settled beside hanging crossbows while Davos turned to Blackfish and said, “He’ll be here soon.”

_I’ve had enough of this._ Jaime held back a sigh and said, “Thank you.” All three men’s eyes fell on him. Three men continued to hold his shoulders down, forcing him to kneel. Jaime smiled. “I appreciate the hospitality, but— why in Seven Hells did these men drag me here?”

Davos squinted his eyes at Jaime, opening his mouth to speak, but no words escaped. Blackfish stomped towards Jaime with pointed finger and asked Davos, “Why does this kitten still have a tongue? He speaks nothing but lies. I told all of you, he has no purpose here but to harm us.”

Jaime chuckled, causing Blackfish’s weathered neck to tighten and convulse. Jaime lifted a knee to stand, but his original assailants knocked their hands harder into his shoulders— right where Brienne clenched and gripped while he fucked her, not even an hour earlier. _Gods, stop thinking about that._

“What is going on?” Sansa said. Her hair stuck out, jostled and jagged from interrupted sleep. Sansa squinted through tired, swollen eyes, growing with suspicion. Her gaze locked on Jaime while Brienne and Podrick stepped in behind her, both stopping at the sight of Jaime. Heart peeling into a million pieces, Jaime averted his eyes away from the three of them.

_Find my nest of salt  
Everything’s my fault_

“Someone attacked Jon while he slept,” Davos explained. “Hit him across the head with a golden hand… a lion sigil.”

Torn between closing his eyes and mocking his accusations, Jaime forced a weak smile at Davos while he retrieved Jaime’s golden hand from a satchel on his hip. “You found my sword hand,” Jaime said, sounding more confident than he felt. He tried shrugging clenched hands off his shoulders, but they gripped harder. Refusing to let his breath shudder, Jaime jetted out his jaw and said, “It’s been missing for months but now I can finally defend myself.” 

Blackfish huffed and shook his head. “Smells like a cat’s ass to me,” he said.

“Is this his hand, My Lady?” Ser Davos asked Sansa, stretching out his hand to show her. 

Jaime eyed the golden metal from a distance. _Cersei gave me that hand._ A sister who loved and hated him. A sister who killed her own son. Jaime scowled. His hand represented one of the last ties to his family— a family everyone hated and feared. _I preferred my life without that hand._

Sansa stared in silence. After a pause, she said, “Yes.” Her eyes looked to Jaime, growing colder with each passing second. 

_I didn’t do it._ Jaime shook his head and looked at Sansa. _Believe me. I didn’t do it._ Sansa blinked and hugged her black cloak tighter around her shoulders. She opened her mouth. Everyone, even Littlefinger, waited for Sansa to speak. In the end, she said nothing.

Jaime closed his eyes, breathing out all remaining vulnerability out of his lungs. _It doesn’t matter._ He had been blamed for acts he never committed before. _Kingslayer._ This was no different. 

“Where were you tonight, Ser?” Davos asked.

Opening his eyes, Jaime stared ahead at bows and arrows hanging from walls. With two hands, he’d take on the world. With one, he was a useless cripple. A slow exhale left Jaime as his eyes crept towards Davos— avoiding Brienne entirely. Jaime tried to relax his face and shoulders while he said, “Around. Walking.”

Within a second, Blackfish asked, “Who saw you?” He cocked his sneering head to the side. 

_Brienne._ Jaime clenched his jaw. _I fucked Brienne of Tarth._ Every cell in his body screamed to tell the truth— glance at her— or fight. But he didn’t. _I fucked the Kingslayer’s whore._ Jaime tightened his eyes closed for a moment while his breathing started to labor. He wouldn’t remember how to breathe if he subjected her to contempt. “No one,” Jaime said.

“Sneaking around? Looking for more Kings to stab in the back?”

Blackfish pushed too far, and Jaime snapped. Jaime lifted himself against the men’s strength and thrust himself towards his target. “With which hand?” Jaime asked, snarling and grating his teeth together.

Never flinching, Blackfish remained standing while the three men grappled and shoved Jaime back onto his knees. Brienne contorted her face while Podrick opened his mouth to speak— but Jon entered the room with a fresh gash adorning his forehead. The King in the North’s eyes fell to Jaime. “You found him,” Jon said, disappointment lacing his tone.

“Yes, we found Jaime Lannister, Your Grace,” Davos said.

Blackfish corrected, “He’s a Kingslayer.”

Stepping towards Jaime, Jon drew in a deep breath, lowered his brows and shook his head. Words couldn’t describe the betrayal on his face. “Why?” Jon asked.

Still furious, Jaime shrugged. He said, “Ask the old trout, or anyone else here. They think they already know.”

“Do you deny the attack?” Jon asked.

Jaime managed a half smile, never losing his humor. _What’s the point? I’m guilty in their eyes, and that’s all that matters._ “You all think so poorly of me to not finish the job?”

Jon blinked and looked to Ser Davos. After a mutual nod, Jon cleared his throat and said, “Spend a night, a week or month in the cells and I’ll have my answer. Ser Davos, I will delay travels—”

“Your— Gra—” Podrick said.

Littlefinger turned to Jon and asked, “Your Grace.” He looked to Sansa, “Lady Sansa,” and back to Jon again, “may I speak?”

Jon and Sansa nodded.

“You say you did not see the attacker?” Littlefinger said, and Jon shook his head. Littlefinger nodded and continued, “A clumsy job at an assassination. Maybe it wasn’t an attempt to kill you, but to keep you in Winterfell. Many Northerners are wary of you traveling south to meet the Dragon Queen.” Littlefinger glanced at Jaime. “It’s just as likely someone else means you to stay. Keep you from your journey. He gains nothing for you to stay. And gains nothing for you to leave. His own family exiled him, except the very man you intend to meet at Dragonstone. He has no—” Littlefinger glanced at Sansa, “history of violence, except years ago, to a wrongful king who killed your grandfather and uncle. It is much more likely for a Northerner to slip into your room without anyone noticing than the Kingslayer.”

After several blinks and hesitation, Jon let out a long, drawn out breath. His dark eyes searched the room for answers while everyone awaited his response. Jon inhaled and said, “I leave at daybreak. Ensure Lady Sansa has extra protection.” Jon turned to Jaime and continued, “One less hand doesn’t allow you exemption from work. You’re a knight, though your words beg to differ. Train fighters like every other knight here.”

If it weren’t for Littlefinger standing up for him, Jaime would have taken Jon’s slight and spit it back into the boy’s face. Jaime didn’t understand why Littlefinger defended him. _Drops of compassion go far in solitary deserts._

Jon faced his sister. “The castle is yours, Lady Sansa. I trust it and you will be standing when I return.”

Sansa nodded with a quiver, wrapping her arms tighter around herself. Between her and her brother, Blackfish studied Littlefinger with heavy eyes. The fish lifted his chin in resigned surrender. Jon’s word was final.

“Let him go,” Jon said, and the men holding Jaime down stepped back.

Jaime stood as tall as almost everyone in the room. With a roll of his shoulders and forced a smile, Jaime asked, “Do I get my hand back?”


	49. Chapter 49

After a year and a half of separation, Jaime reunited with his lost golden hand. He tied it to his stump, and tried his best to ignore an onslaught of guards watching his every breath. They watched him eat and train, and they stood outside doors while he slept or used the privy. It reminded him of almost four years prior— when Brienne yanked him through farms of Westeros. _Not nearly as pretty._

His only moments with Brienne were shared in cold training yards under watchful eyes, and they shared harsh words and harsher expressions. His behavior in the armory infuriated her, and him shrugging the event off enraged her further. _I have far other things to worry about._ Lord Selwyn’s cooperation fell silent, and no maester delivered a letter to Jaime. Still, he waited.

Weeks passed into months while everyone awaited Jon to return or the mysterious ghost army to arrive. Jaime ignored the North’s fairytales while his left arm strengthened and improved. Enduring hours of training every day, Jaime became the most fit he had ever been. Jaime let children wrestle and tackle him to the ground. They judged him far less than everyone else. They loved ogling over his golden hand, and he even let them play with it. Blackfish, training men and women with crossbows and bows, made no effort to hide his frowns or glowers towards Jaime. 

Jaime only allowed a handful of adults wrestle or fight with him. Podrick, a growing, toughening teenager, proved an almost equal battle. Brienne coached Podrick with every swing, duck and tumble. _She likes watching me get pressed into mud._ Sore and exhausted, Jaime mustered up extra energy to wrestle Brienne. Her once smiling face turned tense and serious while they prowled around each other. Always more impatient than her, Jaime leapt forward, grappling in attempt to throw her into brown snow. His gloved hand knew exactly how to touch her, grip her, entrap her— but he never touched her for long. Everyone watched. Men, women and children cheered while Brienne and Jaime fought for dominance. It was the only time they _could_ touch each other. She won every wrestle, amidst hollers from Winterfell’s crowd. They enjoyed watching her conquer him. Jaime didn’t mind. He relished feeling her gloved hand pressing the side of his face into half frozen mud. His ears focused on her shallowed breathing— because it was the closest he could get to fucking her. Her lips gave him brief, breathless smirks when she let him go.

Their passion never stopped building.

Over the months, fewer guards watched him and Jaime settled into a harmless routine: wake up, eat, fight, train, eat, fall asleep. During training, a single look from Brienne sent Jaime into hours of a daydream. He dreamed of her, most nights. If he wasn’t dead tired, his desire tore apart his own heart. With his sore, rough hand, he stroked himself, picturing Brienne— but it would never feel as good as _her_. Their lust reached a boiling point, leaving Jaime and Brienne quivering whenever they passed each other in hallways or yards. A single breath or whimper from Brienne sent his cock aching. Touching her during wrestling no longer satisfied him— it killed him. Her juvenile blushing and trembling hands begged to agree with him.

He couldn’t stand it.

Jaime abandoned everything: his armor, his golden hand and his guards as he left his room. He kept only his irrational heart in his hand. Tiptoeing, he walked to Brienne’s closed door— locked. _Unbolt the damn door, woman._ His palms chilled in his own sweat as his cock throbbed at just the mere _hope_ of finding her alone. 

She opened her door and he stormed inside, colliding with his wide eyed, speechless lover. His lips captured her mouth and his stump slammed her door closed. Weak and crumbling, she let him in, and they tumbled onto her bed together. Among three desperate hands rushing to meld their souls together, Brienne broke their kiss.

Jaime damned and forgot everything imaginable until Brienne said, “We shouldn’t— like this.”

“We should,” Jaime said, hovering over her. He stretched his hand down, under her trousers and between her spread thighs to find her warm and wet. His hoarse voice said, “I’ll take you to the damned sept myself and marry you a thousand times over if that makes this right.” 

She spread her legs further and pulled him closer. Feverish, selfish and foolish— he took her for himself. Ripping trousers off in their careless hands, he rushed to fill her. She seized him just as much, digging the ends of her fingers into his clothes as he fucked her. His blank mind surrounded himself in his senses, focusing on her heating skin on his around his hips, her stifling moans against his skin, her wobbling bed under his thrusts, her blooming scent and his ravaging taste. He almost missed her climax, except her arching body and tensing muscles reminded him. Her clenched hands, no longer pressing his face into mud, pressed him against her chest while he buried himself into her. His ear, against her thick clothes, heard her pounding heart. She consumed him. He no longer held back his building moans, or his thrusts— he _meant_ to claim her, fill her, — but Brienne reached down to force his hips and cock back. Jaime growled until her soft hands stroked him. His breath hitched in his chest as his angry cock spilled and spurted himself over her thigh and cloak.

Jaime’s muscles weakened as he fell on top of Brienne. He finally heard her crackling fire across the room, and the smell of their sweat soaked into the furs they lay on. Brienne lived in a larger room than Jaime. She had a larger window, still frosted over and blurry. Her armor glistened on an upright figure, similarly to when he first gifted it to her. She breathed beneath him as reality flooded back into his mind. _You’re right, I shouldn’t be here—_

“Did you mean what you said?” Brienne asked.

_Give me my pick of any dime  
And I’ll pick you, girl, every time_

Drained, leaned over to help clean her. “I always mean what I say, Brian.”

“Stop,” she said, pushing his sore shoulder back with a rough yank. 

He fell backwards. “Stop what?” he asked as Brienne’s eyes widened. Jaime licked his lips and smirked. “The sept? Of course, I mean it. Let’s go, right now.”

Brienne’s eyes tightened while she grinned. “In the Gods’ eyes, we are already—”

“Is that why you let me fuck you?” Jaime’s eyes danced across her face.

She blushed. 

_It is!_ Jaime glanced away with a youthful grin. _Losing my hand may be worth it, after all._ He raised his eyebrows, shook his head and said, “I don’t care what the Gods think.”

“You care what others think?” Brienne asked.

Her words cut him. “You do, too, or else you wouldn’t be hiding or biting the back of your hand when you—”

“Stop that,” Brienne said, smiling. Her fingers lingered on his shoulder, threatening to push him again.

“I mean it,” Jaime said, reaching over to touch her cheek with his stump. She leaned into it as if his hand cupped her face. He continued, “We should stop hiding. Let them think and say what they want.” _I can’t survive this Seven Hells of a place without sharing your bed._ He returned his stump to his side. While Brienne pondered, obligation encouraged Jaime to admit the truth. “I’ve asked your father—”

“You asked my father?!” Brienne almost shouted. Her open mouth inhaled quick breaths. “What did he say?”

Jaime looked to the ground as his fingers rolled and fidgeted. “Well, he said... no.”

“Gods!” Brienne said, bringing her hands up to hide her face. 

Jaime lifted himself to sitting while Brienne imploded on herself. She burst into a shade of red he hadn’t yet seen before. _That’s not all._ Jaime sighed. “Sansa knows,” Jaime said, closing his eyes.

Brienne jolted herself off her bed. She rushed to dress herself as Jaime fumbled his own trousers up and fastened. Brienne said nothing, and her furious, hasty fingers built her walls higher and higher. _It will take a million kisses to help her get over this._

Both of them looked to the door when people shouted in the halls. They crossed by each other— Jaime pressed his ear to her door while Brienne grabbed Oathkeeper. She placed a hand on Jaime’s chest. Jaime’s eyes and heart begged for her to acknowledge him. _She won’t look at me._ She nudged Jaime aside, and he yielded. She opened the door, closing it as she left.

Jaime remained alone, clenching and releasing his only hand. Shouts intensified— shrieking for the Kingslayer. Jaime closed his eyes, inhaled a deep breath and exited Brienne’s room. 

Death and darkness awaited him outside, and Jaime stepped through halls without protection. As he rounded a corner, several men armed with glowers sharper than their swords pointed towards him. Jaime smirked, of all things, and lifted a smug chin while men rushed to grab him. _I wonder what I did this time?_

Men and Blackfish yanked and dragged Jaime to Winterfell’s dungeons, past the undercrofts and cellars while they ignored his jests. Rust and mildew coated Jaime’s throat. No one said a thing to him— they kept pushing and pulling him deeper. Jaime dragged his feet and asked, “What did I do this time, hit you across the head? I should have hit harder.”

“You hit Sansa well enough, but she’s stronger than you.” Blackfish said, following behind men and Jaime.

“Sansa?” Jaime struggled to look over his shoulder. _I can’t believe this._ “You think it was me?”

“It’s always been you. You’ve hit her before, she said it herself.”

Jaime’s throat tightened. He had hit her before, but not this time. He shook his head. “Funny how the people who know the least about you have the most to say.”

“Keep talking, Kingslayer, you’re almost where you belong. Rotting away here.” He paused and scoffed. “Gods, I wish they listened to me then,” he said to himself. “I will never know what they saw in you. All I see is a one handed animal, lost and without a home.”

Jaime dug his heels into the stone floor. He stretched his left fist to punch Blackfish, but a guard reached forward and sliced his sword into Jaime’s thigh. Pain blinded him for a moment as he stumbled to relieve his stinging muscle— red soaking his trousers. 

Blackfish stopped, sneered and held out his hand to signal the guard to stop. “No need. He’s as lame as a dead horse.”

Salt and sweat from Jaime’s skin stung in his fresh wound, but he didn’t care. His teeth clenched hard enough to crack while men pulled Jaime away and into a cell. They tossed him in, forcing his ass on cold, stale puddles of water. Guards spit and swung the door closed, locking Jaime inside.

Jaime limped to the door— trying his best to ignore his throbbing thigh. _Those fuckers._ Jaime shook his head, peering through a small opening in his door. Through deep breaths, he tried his best to calm his heart enough to hear men talking down the hall.

“... has arrived,” someone said.

“Seven Hells, Gods be good. We will meet him in the Great Hall,” Blackfish said, losing all judgement in his tone.

“They’re bringing him down here, M’lord. To speak with him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I plan on posting two chapters tomorrow, stay tuned! :)


	50. Chapter 50

Drops of water trickled from a low, encroaching ceiling. Jaime sat against a wall, closed his eyes and focused— 200 beats per minute. Doing double time, his heart prepared for the worst. Jaime leaned his head back against clammy, moist stone. _Jon is back. Here to kill me._ He opened his eyes, unable to see any difference— blinded. His thigh screamed, loud enough for Jaime shut everything out except his spiraling thoughts. _It was worth it, Brienne. I would have done it all again._ Jaime shook his head, forbidding himself to think of her. 

An hour passed, full of quivering breaths of stenched air. Jaime grazed over his thigh, which stopped bleeding. Skin and tissue swelled around his cut, and the blood hadn’t yet dried.

Murmured voices approached his door, and as Jaime’s cell door opened, his eyes adjusted to bright, crackling flames on a torch. Jon Snow did not stand in front of him. It was someone else… sitting in a chair. 

“In there, Lord Stark?” a guard asked.

Jaime’s eyes widened. _Lord Stark?_

“Yes,” a teenaged voice said, “I will be fine.”

After a pause, guards lifted the wooden chair and sitting teenager into Jaime’s cell. _He can’t walk..._ Another guard placed a torch on the open door behind him. The young man stared at Jaime with a subtle smile. 

Wanting to greet his unexpected guest, Jaime struggled to stand. 

“No need, Ser Jaime,” the teen said.

Jaime furrowed his eyebrows and plunked down onto his ass. 

The teen remained sitting, hands clasped together over a wolf pelt on his lap. His eyes never left Jaime’s face. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Lord— Stark?” Jaime asked. This teen’s kindness gave Jaime pause.

“Three Eyed Raven.”

A laugh threatened to escape Jaime’s throat, but he held it back when the boy failed to smile. _A joke? I shouldn’t mock a kid who can’t walk._ Dim light allowed Jaime to study the teen. A couple years into puberty, small fuzz grew above his upper lip. His hair, while dark, reflected red tones under the firelight. Jaime knew a damn Tully when he saw one, and he guessed this teen was Catelyn’s son. The boy Theon lied about killing. Jaime swallowed asked, “Sansa’s brother?”

The teen nodded once.

Jaime nodded back, and the boy kept staring. Feeling pressure, Jaime glanced away and inhaled a deep breath. _He means to kill me._ His eyes fell to the ground. “Do you know what they intend to do with me?” Jaime asked.

“Yes,” he said, in a calm, neutral tone.

Jaime shook his head and scowled. “I don’t even know what they think I did, but I didn’t do it.”

“I know.” The teen unraveled his wolf pelt, revealing a gray, wooden bowl. A dozen faces carved into the wood and the young man reached in. With the tips of his fingers, he touched a small bit of white paste to his tongue. He closed his eyes while Jaime stared— slack jawed.

“You know?” Jaime asked, but the teen neglected to respond. Jaime’s heart raced as the young man remained still— eyes still closed. 

The teen’s eyes opened and fixed on Jaime. “I know everything,” he said again, lifting his chin. “I know you were supposed to push me out of the window, not Ser Daven. But you died too soon.”

“I—” Jaime forced a timid laugh as his face flushed. “I— wouldn’t have done that.”

“The things you do for love.”

 _The things I do for love._ Jaime froze. He had said those words, to _her_ , only _her_ , years ago— right after the car accident. _That poor, poor family._ Jaime squinted towards the teen, who appeared unphased. “How do you know—”

“I know everything,” the teen said with flat-affect, whispering, “I know you’re from the future. I’ve seen it. You’re meant to take his place.”

Jaime’s eyes widened, stared— unable to move. _He knows._ Jaime blinked and looked away when his eyes dampened. _He knows._

The teen inhaled a managed a small smile. He tilted his head to get a better look at Jaime. Louder, he said, “Time stops to fix its mistakes.”

Jaime let out a small laugh. “I have a lot of mistakes to fix.”

Underneath his wolf pelt, the young man unveiled a white, metal dagger. He observed it and then leaned over to hold the smooth hilt to Jaime.

 _He means to arm me?_

“Take it,” the teen said, whispering. “Hide it. I will need this back.” He continued to hold out his dagger.

“I—” Jaime creased his brows, “I don’t know when I’ll see you again.”

“Soon.”

With reluctance, Jaime winced in pain and bent forward to accept the dagger. Warm to the touch, the small blade fit well in his only hand. His eyes glued to it, observing marbled paths through the metal. Valyrian steel. _Just like Oathkeeper._ By the time he glanced back to the boy, he had already asked guards for help to leave. Jaime’s hand twisted the dagger back and behind his back— resting against the wall. Jaime’s fingers tightened around the dagger’s hilt while the guards lifted the teen up and out of his cell, closed and locked his cell door.

A steady rhythm of drops returned. Jaime’s breathing quickened against the cold stone behind him. He pulled out the dagger and tried to gaze at it with almost no light. Jaime’s hand swirled, flexed and twitched. A knock interrupted him. Jaime tucked the dagger behind his back.

Still sitting, almost trembling from cold, Jaime looked to see a guard open his door. He hoped to see Brienne, of all people, but Littlefinger stood in front of him.

“A shame to see you here, Lord Jaime,” Littlefinger said.

Jaime scoffed, glancing away with a twisted smile. He pressed his lips together, refusing to reply.

“It is the middle of the night, you should get some rest. This will all be taken care of, come morning,” Littlefinger said, ducking his head underneath the door to step inside. A guard stood outside, watching them both for a moment before turning away. Littlefinger half smiled and raised his eyebrows at Jaime’s gloomy, stifling lockup. In a quieter voice, Littlefinger said, “There’s more evidence, I’m afraid.”

Provoked to speak, Jaime sneered and said, “What evidence?”

Littlefinger loosened himself in a light shrug and walked across the small cell. “Your golden hand, found again, next to someone hit across the head. Sansa revealed you hit her before. Someone tried to rape her, and they want your head.”

“I did _no_ such things,” Jaime said, seething among throbbing veins in his neck.

Littlefinger held up his hands in surrender. “They say— not me. There was also a raven… from King’s Landing. A scroll about earning Cersei’s good graces by trying to kill the King in the North, and there is a scroll confirming that request, written by y—”

“No, no, no,” Jaime said, cutting him off. “I am— being framed.” He closed his eyes and shook his head, wondering who would go through so many lengths to undo him. Desperate, Jaime breathed shallow breaths and said, “You helped me last time, and I am thankful for that but—”

“I will try my best, Lord Jaime,” Littlefinger said, furrowing his brows into a look full of pity. “In the meantime— I have something to help.” He reached into a pocket and pulled out a white, porcelain vial. Littlefinger forced a smile. “I heard they injured you. Milk of the poppy, to ease the pain.”

In an instant, porcelain eyes stared at him from across his cell. Jaime shrunk back against the wall, holding himself. Littlefinger set the vial down and bowed himself out. Jaime’s door had since been closed, and flickering lights haunted through the small door opening, illuminating his weakness across the cell. Jaime repeated “milk of the poppy” in his head over, over and over again. He clenched his eyelids shut at his own thoughts.

_High and surrendering to the gravity and the unknown_  
_Catch me, heal me, lift me back up to the sun_

Tempo changed, and Jaime breathed faster and faster until his head turned dizzy. _Enough to get me high?_ Jaime licked his lips. _Enough to kill me._ His dilated pupils focused on the twist of his sleeve, and his fingers obsessed over every snag of fabric itching his skin. Jaime breathed. He needed support. He reached for his needle scar on his left arm, but only his numb stump brushed over it. He leaned his head back, opening his eyes to see the vial again. _Enough, there’s enough._

Jaime held his breath, imagining the bitter taste soaking into his veins in a sudden, lush wave. He released his breath, remembering long delays of withdrawal. His muscles trembled at the thought. Every surface of his body broke out in a sweat, despite its blanket of goosebumps.

He wanted— needed to get rid of it. Trusting himself to touch the vial was a different story. Jaime turned himself away from the vial and faced towards damp, dark stone. In his mind’s eye, he imagined infinite space between himself and his relapse. _Within arms reach._ Jaime’s forehead leaned against the cell wall. While nodding his head yes, he said, “No.” In one moment, he understood everyone’s mindset before relapsing. He wanted— needed to use it. _I can handle it._

Jaime trembled. Euphoria radiated over him with the single thought of giving in. But Jaime remembered why he ran to drugs in the first place— it wasn’t the chase of pleasure, it was the desperation to breakout from solitude and a life he hated. Jaime shook his head and looked up, seeing nothing but darkness. Nothing supported him. 

_Fuck the Gods. They only save those born to die._

_Fuck family. They only disable me— more than when I lost my hand._

_Fuck community. They only see the lies that people tell them._

Jaime’s strength slipped away from him, decaying away until no nerve could deny his urge to give in. _Just one taste. Only a little._ Closing his eyes, he expected to see shades of sinful darkness or tempting white— but he saw blue, burning brighter than the sun. _Brienne._ Jaime yielded mid deep breath, not to temptation, but to his own worth. _I am worth recovery._ Jaime grimaced harder, clenching his fingers into a fist until his nails pierced through skin. Regret was harder than recovery. And recovery came first so everything he loved didn’t come last.

Legs and hand lunged Jaime towards the vial. He grabbed it, focusing on the chilled sensation stinging into his fresh wounds. Without thinking, Jaime thrust the vial through his cell’s opening. He let go, and the vial fell to its demise— crashing and splashing white death onto the stone outside his door. Jaime collapsed and felt every muscle and cell breathe a sigh of relief and simultaneous regret.

He cycled in and out of thoughts and obsessions. He worried the evil liquid seeped into his cell to haunt him. He considered using the knife to carve his way through the wooden door— not escape, but to reach for the jagged pieces of vial— coated with his last dying, blissful breaths. Jaime endured mental pacing, until he closed his eyes and forced himself to lie down and meditate. He focused his mind on the pain in his stump, thigh and hand. Agony in his heart hurt more. He honed in on his beating heart, still fast and strong. Drugs would slow it down until it drowned on itself.

Jaime almost fell asleep— until his cell door opened, and Littlefinger’s shadow stretched across the floor of Jaime’s cell.

Jaime winced and turned around. Littlefinger, holding a crossbow, squinted his eyes at Jaime. Jaime lifted himself to sitting, peering past the man to see several guards asleep or dead behind him. Flickering light danced on the edge of Littlefinger’s crossbow, which Jaime assumed he used on the guards. Except, Littlefinger’s hands raised and aimed the crossbow at Jaime.

“You look just like him,” Littlefinger said. His tone turned more sinister, not all friendly like previous times. He angled his weapon forward, sneering through the sights with his right eye. He gave the floor a quick glance, noting the broken vial on the ground. Littlefinger smirked and rolled his fingers against the trigger. “I should have known you wouldn’t make the same mistake he did.”

 _Just like him?_ Jaime glowered, following the man’s eyes down to the vial. _Jaime._ Jaime pulled back his hand, suffering from faltering tremors. With a single breath, everything made sense. Littlefinger didn’t bring milk of the poppy to ease Jaime’s pain, he brought it to put him asleep— just like he did to the previous Jaime over a decade ago. _Did he die of an overdose? Or you’re just too coward to kill a man unless he’s half asleep?_ Jaime jutted out his chin and said, “They’ll know it was you.”

“Will they?” Littlefinger half smiled and turned his head to look at the side of the crossbow, where Blackfish’s sigil had been etched into wood. He returned his eyes to gaze at Jaime through the sights and said, “They think I’m your only friend.”

Jaime shook his head. “You’re not my only friend—”

“She will be taken care of,” Littlefinger said, taking one step into the cell while Jaime forgot to breathe. “Once she kills Blackfish in retaliation for your murder, she will be executed.” Littlefinger curved his finger against the trigger, tilting his head in admiration of Jaime— who remained speechless. “I must say,” Littlefinger said, “I am impressed by your ability to fool everyone. It’s been a pleasure outmaneuvering you, but you’ve overstayed your welcome and played your poor game long enough. Fitting to end the same way he did.”

Before Littlefinger pulled the trigger, Jaime winced and asked, “Why?” 

Littlefinger smirked.

Jaime narrowed his eyes. “Why kill him?”

“Why?” Littlefinger’s smirk vanished. “Why not? He slew his own king.”

Jaime shook his head, refusing to believe it. He felt more of a twin with the previous Jaime than his own sister. He had to have been framed, forced— _something._ Jaime’s left hand tightened as he imagined his predecessor's death. Cold. Alone. High. _Would he have lost his hand, like me?_ Jaime frowned. _Would he have loved Brienne, like me?_ His breath caught in his throat. _What would he do?_

“Lucky for me, you’re not a knight,” Littlefinger said. He pursed his lips out and they curved into a coy smile. “A shame I don’t know your true name.”

Jaime’s glared but his lips curved into a twisted smile. “My name is Jaime.”

Littlefinger squinted his eyes, tilted his head and pressed the crossbow forward. Jaime lurched and reached for his dagger. Marbled blade gleamed beside a flying bolt. Impact jolted Jaime’s right shoulder backwards, and he stretched his left arm to knock the crossbow out of his way. Beating Littlefinger’s extending hands, the dagger slashed into his throat. Littlefinger hunched his shoulders, gurgling and drowning in his own blood. With a thud, he fell to the ground and struggled to breathe.

_You will kill something you’ve lost._

Jaime’s quick, pounding heart pulsed harder in his throbbing thigh and injured right shoulder. Littlefinger collapsed as his life poured out of him. Jaime tucked the dagger against his hip. Littlefinger's eyes fluttered closed. Gore oozed and spread, crawling onto stone ground. His slow blood rolled into white liquid, swirling and blending together.


	51. Chapter 51

Jaime hobbled within lifeless, quiet walls until the nearest guard spooked at the sight of him. Despite dropping his torch and holding out his only hand, men swarmed him. Jaime held back his own dry, parched tongue while three guards fussed over what to do with him. Their boiling voices halted into an eerie stillness when Blackfish stepped closer, beneath flickering flames. Jaime, blinking and squinting within heavy bags around his eyes, awaited the man’s quips.

“Where is my crossbow?” Blackfish asked, facing Jaime.

Jaime made no effort to resist the firm hands holding and gripping onto him. In fact, he used them as support, leaning against the guards while his own weeping legs threatened to snap. Jaime let out a small sigh and nodded towards his cell. “Next to Littlefinger’s body.”

Blackfish’s squinted for a brief moment and inhaled a breath large enough for several men. His chin lowered before he brushed by them, descending into Winterfell’s bowels to see the truth for himself.

Between blurring, swirling vision, Jaime lowered his head and said to the guards, “Stop letting me bleed all over you and take me to the winter lady.”

Each of the four men tripped and stumbled their way up stairs and tightening hallways. Shouts crested from above, and Jaime breathed clean air when they arrived at the castle’s main floor. Guards pushed Jaime forward, but his decaying body pleaded for a pause. His lungs demanded more and more air— something unachievable as he felt himself slipping into a foggy dream.

“I will take him from here.”

Jaime lifted weighted eyelids to see Brienne, puffing her armored chest out and extending her arms out for him. Without thinking, Jaime allowed his sapling legs to wobble forward, colliding his hands onto Brienne’s armored chest. He smirked.

Without a shred of enjoyment, Brienne hoisted up Jaime into her arms and carried him through Winterfell’s shadows.

“Where are you taking me?” Jaime asked. He closed his eyes and said, “I doubt we’ll be private. Maybe I can get it up, but I’ll need your help.”

“Lady Sansa,” Brienne said.

Jaime rested his head against her armor, staring at each subtle scratch and dent within trembling focus. His ears searched and listened for a heartbeat he couldn’t hear. Jaime glanced up at Brienne. “Is my ex-wife mad at me? I suppose that’s not surprising.”

“This is serious,” Brienne said without looking at him. “No one appreciates your humor.”

Jaime closed his eyes as his throat bobbed against sand. “I know who appreciates me the most.”

Brienne carried her injured lion into unknown safety, and set him down among gentle, warm furs. Jaime half dreamed Brienne’s words when she said, “Get the maester. No pain relief.”

_She knows me._ Jaime smiled, ignoring his body’s choking wails. With her, he felt secure— surrounded by his protector. Nothing cured insomnia more than safety.

Jaime awoke to the maester feasting his fingers of dirt into his shoulder. Jaime flinched away, widening his eyes to see himself resting on a bed in a large chamber. Candles illuminated little, and tears of wax trickled down walls. The maester moved, allowing Jaime to see across the room. Elegant furniture and extra furs meant he was in Sansa’s chambers. His eyes found Brienne standing next to a sitting Sansa, both next to a loud fire. His teeth chewed the insides of his cheeks, biting back his urges to cry out while the maester held Jaime down and inspected his shoulder.

Brienne turned to Sansa and said, “He is a man of honor. I was his captor once. But when we were both taken prisoner and the men holding us tried to force themselves on me, Ser Jaime defended me and lost his hand because of it. Without him, My Lady, you would not be alive.”

Jaime winced, unable to believe Brienne vouched for his honor. For a moment, he closed his eyes and his hand.

Slouched and leaning onto her chair, Sansa stared into the fire. Brienne, as tired as the woman she served, waited for a response, validation— anything. Jaime’s deep, labored breathing kept him occupied while the maester tilted and gazed at the bolt’s insertion point.

The door opened. Podrick entered, gave one panicked look at Jaime and clutched his own shoulder as if he had been injured. Brienne walked over and snatched a scroll out of Podrick’s other hand while she sighed.

“Sorry— My Lady,” Podrick said.

“No matter, Pod,” Brienne said, returning to her lady’s side. She shrunk to Sansa’s level and offered the scroll. “Here is the letter, My Lady. I insist Littlefinger framed Ser Jaime.”

Spell broken, Sansa turned to Brienne and accepted the scroll. Jaime frowned, wanting to know its contents, but the maester plunged him into a drowning world of pain when he yanked out the bolt from his flesh without warning. Through gritting teeth and fused jaw, Jaime roared and cursed at the maester— louder when the maester placed an herbed cloth over his stinging wound. Everyone stared at Jaime, except Sansa, who frowned and continued reading the scroll.

While pain radiated, seeing everyone’s pitying eyes hurt him more. Jaime inhaled a labored breath and said, “How many hands attacked you? Take a guess how many I have.” Across the room, Brienne’s scowl threatened to kill him. He adjusted himself on the bed and said, “Littlefinger’s plan, he said it himself.” Jaime no longer looked to Sansa, because the maester enveloped Jaime to examine his wounded thigh. After a rip, white, soaked cloth assaulted the bite in his thigh into a deep, curdling burn. Jaime threw his head back, writhing.

“This is about Lady Brienne?” Sansa said, resuming regal posture and looking up from the letter. “He wrote this?”

_That letter?!_ Jaime scorned his own deafening heart and turned his head to gaze across the room. Jaime swallowed. Brienne held back a quivering smile and said, “Yes, he wrote it to my father.”

Jaime rolled his eyes and grabbed the maester’s damaging hand. “Stop reading it,” Jaime said. 

Brienne shook her head and spoke with more earnest. “Those are his words, I am sure of it. His writing. The letters between Jaime and Cersei have been forged. Compare the writing.”

“How do we know this letter isn’t forged?” Sansa asked.

Jaime glared at the maester— debating whether or not to swallow his own pride. _It’s too late, they’ve already read it._ “This man forced me rewrite it,” Jaime said. 

The maester’s body stilled, but his slow eyes turned to Sansa. “I— I did— Lady Sansa” the maester said, “It is illegible.”

Sansa lowered the scroll, set it down and let out a long breath. Through the open door, Blackfish entered. Every wrinkle on his face sat deeper, and his brows resisted settling on a single expression. He turned to Jaime and asked, “How did you kill him?”

_Kingslayer refuses to give up his secrets._ “A dagger,” Jaime said, considering a shrug, but he caught himself. When Blackfish’s mouth fell agape, Jaime added, “Sansa’s brother gave it to me.” _Don’t make me use it again on you._

Blackfish shook his head and confronted Sansa. “Petyr wouldn’t do this, I’ve known him since he was a boy.”

“Explain how I can aim and shoot myself with one hand,” Jaime said, raising his voice and trying to lift himself for a fair fight. _Littlefinger was right, you lay a hand on me and Brienne will tear you apart scale by scale._

Sansa rose, silencing everyone in her room. Even the fire lost its voice. She gazed at no one in particular and said, “He killed Lysa... Before he pushed her through the Moon Door, she spouted off nonsense I refused to believe. How she lay with him. How my grandfather forced her to drink moon tea. She’s the entire reason he came to power. He had her poison Jon Arryn. He had her write to my mother accusing the Lannisters.” Sansa’s eyes only gazed at her uncle.

Blackfish’s breath stumbled as the news settled. “Why keep these secrets?” Jaime had never heard him so shocked.

“Because Lysa was insane and Littlefinger denied those claims,” Sansa said.

“And he attacked Jon?” Blackfish asked, turning back to Jaime.

_You have as many brain cells as teeth._ Jaime’s dry lips demanded help, so he licked them, ready to assault the man with a barrage of insults.

“I saw them, Ser,” Podrick said, “I— I— saw Jaime across the grounds that night. When Jon—”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Sansa asked Podrick.

Everyone glared at the teenager, except Jaime, who focused on Brienne’s cheek and nose burning red. _He saw us?_

Podrick swallowed and shifted his feet. Still looking at the ground, Podrick said, “Ser Jaime spoke before I… He said— no one.”

Blackfish’s stenching scowl returned and he prepared to interrogate Jaime all over again. 

Sansa walked forward to stop him and said, “It doesn’t matter. We’re safer without Littlefinger, Uncle, I assure you. Littlefinger can’t play his games anymore. We will discuss these matters later. Dawn will break in a few short hours.” Sansa eyed Jaime, still laying in her bed. Without emotion, she gazed over him, raised her chin and said, “Ser Jaime will heal and help us prepare for battle— not in a cell.”

Blackfish shared glances with the maester, who stepped aside to gather his equipment. 

Before Sansa exited, Brienne planted herself beside the door and whispered, “If it pleases you, I would like to stay with Ser Jaime— for the night.”

Sansa stopped and replied loudly enough for Jaime to hear, “Very well. I will speak with Ser Royce. You will resume guard at dawn.”

Brienne closed the door once everyone left. She untied her armor, starting at her left shoulder. 

Jaime was too tired to tease her, even though they were all alone. “Let me help you,” Jaime said.

Brienne snapped a glare in Jaime’s direction— no words needed.

He swallowed and let out a shuddering breath. “You didn’t get any sleep, did you?” _Neither did I._

“None,” she said, setting down each piece of armor beside the fire. Her efficient fingers worked to undo her last pieces.

Jaime said, “You should get some—”

“I will sleep when I know you’re safe.” she said, squinting from across the room. Free of her armor, she leaned down and picked up the scroll Sansa read.

Jaime tensed, overwhelmed by his own inflamed muscles and strained harder. He half convinced himself to run across Sansa’s chambers and snatch the scroll out of Brienne’s hand.

“Why did you write this?” She asked.

“Don’t—”

“I’ve saved her from bears, rapists, Loras Tyrell, King’s Landing and rumors,” Brienne said, reading the letter out loud. Jaime clenched his eyes and sighed. Brienne walked towards him and continued reading, “She’s saved me from death, more times than I can count on one hand. I should have asked you years ago, and here I am. Waiting. I will wait over a thousand years if I have to. The only dowry I ask for is her heart, and she has already taken mine. I’m not ashamed of loving her, only of the things I’ve done to hide it.”

_Gods._ Jaime brought his only hand to his face, rubbing his eyebrows in attempt to hide his reddening skin. He had never told Brienne how he felt about her. He never quite knew how— but reading this letter wasn’t a good start. He refused to look at her, as he felt her approaching him. 

Jaime almost recoiled when her soft hand touched his injured arm. She dragged her thumb across a crease of muscle along his arm and said, “No more waiting. No more hiding. I will write to him.”

“No,” Jaime said, pulling down his hand to glare at her, but her swimming eyes stopped him. 

“It’s beautiful,” she said, soon averting her eyes away, “I never expected...”

Jaime reached his hand up to hold her cheek.

_The world is beating you down, I'm around through every mood_   
_You're my downfall, you're my muse_   
_My worst distraction, my rhythm and blues_   
_I can't stop singing, it's ringing, in my head for you_

A knock on the door echoed throughout the room. “Brandon Stark, My Lord,” a guard said through muffled door.

Brienne helped Jaime sit up, with great effort, and he allowed them in. After several guards heaved the teenager into the room, Bran gazed at Jaime with a subtle smile. Brienne stepped across the room and tended to the dying fire, throwing crumbling logs into flames and stoking them. Bran’s eyes continued to stare while Jaime forced a small grin. 

“The dagger, Ser Jaime?” Bran asked.

“Oh.” Jaime fumbled through his trousers, causing Brienne to ripen and blush, and he pulled out the Valyrian dagger. Jaime presented the blade hilt first, and Bran leaned over to accept it. As their fingers touched, Bran closed his eyes and remained still for several seconds. Jaime frowned as his head swayed to the left— curious what this teenager was doing.

“You were never the driver,” Bran said, leaning back in his chair and gazing at Jaime.

Jaime petrified. Across the room, Brienne straightened her back and peered over. 

Bran continued, “She crashed the car, not you. She asked you to lie and say you drove. And you did. You didn’t kill that family. She did.”

Speechless, Jaime drew his slow hand back while his eyes sank to the floor. The accident. Yes, he had been using drugs, but he lied to say he drove the car to protect his lover’s career. She had stumbled out of the driver’s seat, barely a scratch, and begged Jaime to lie while sirens wailed around them. High, and in love, Jaime had agreed. _The things I do for love._ Jaime shook his head, wondering why Bran mentioned this.

Brienne, behind him, walked over with a stern frown. 

Jaime glanced away, confronted by the truth. _He said it for her._ Jaime breathed in a deep breath, brave enough to ask about the Jaime before him. “Was Jaime even a Kingslayer?”

Bran lifted his chin. “Yes.”

Jaime scowled and shook his head. _I can’t believe it._ “Why did he kill him?”

“Aerys wanted to burn them all,” Bran said.

“What about…” Jaime’s voice turned to a whisper. He knew the fate of King’s Landing, and it hadn’t yet happened. Daenerys, and her dragons...

“She’s meant to be here,” Bran said, “For the Long Night.”


	52. Chapter 52

One month later, Jaime, Brienne and Podrick sat together for supper in the dining hall. Through dying sunlight, shadows crept along every table. Candles, most on their last legs, did their best to fight the darkness. At the very least, they allowed Jaime to share occasional smirks with Brienne, who sat across the table. The three of them moved slowly, aching arms to finish eating their fish stew. Beside them, rugged Northern men and women belched and slurped their soups loudly enough to bother Brienne. Jaime smirked, but ate with care, trying his best not to stir his favorite flame. Briny, oily fish broth coated his tongue, and his stomach welcomed it. Jaime tolerated the food well enough, considering he had been Winterfell’s guest for over a year. 

Why he stayed, Jaime hardly knew. _For Brienne._ And lack of a home. The North wasn’t home. Notherner’s still scowled at him, and Littlefinger’s justice earned him no friendships. He stayed for Brienne— followed Brienne, and she continued serving Sansa. Jaime gazed at the Lady of Winterfell, not yet a queen. He frowned, wondering when, or if, he would ever convince Brienne to leave Winterfell. She believed the Northern whispers of a dead army. Others. White walkers. Jaime suppressed his scoffs at any mention of them. Even Bran, now sitting in his wooden wheelchair, maintained the importance of preparing for the Long Night. _Probably just some distant Free Folk clan._

Past Brienne’s slouching posture, servants walked around the dining hall and replaced melted candles with fresh ones. The maester stepped towards Brienne. “A scroll from Tarth, My Lady,” he said, holding out a message in both hands.

Scowling harder than ever, Brienne looked up at the man and faltered. Her eyes jumped around before she accepted it, and the maester bowed himself away.

Pod raised his eyebrows and leaned closer to Brienne as she unfoiled the scroll and read it. Jaime soured and bent forward, but before he took a peek, Brienne’s widened eyes snapped to Jaime. “He said yes,” Brienne said, curving her velvet lips into a rare smile.

Jaime’s mouth dropped and released a small gasp. _Stubborn bastard._ His shoulder, now healed, lifted up into a shrug as he leaned back into his seat. “It took him a year to say yes to the best betrothal he’s ever seen,” Jaime said.

“Stop it,” Brienne said, teeth burrowing into her bottom lip.

Jaime glanced at Pod, who smiled and returned to his stew.

“I will tell Lady Sansa,” Brienne said as her long, thick legs floated her away from their table.

With no time to stop her, Jaime’s eyes followed as his stomach fluttered and his mouth smirked. _No more hiding._

“Congratulations,” Pod said, offering a sweet smile. Patches of uneven, dark hair clung to his face.

Jaime nodded and managed a small grin. “Thank you.” _She’s already mine and I’m already hers._ Jaime’s eyes gazed around him, wondering if anyone would believe him if he said he had already married her. He knew they wouldn’t. Jaime let out a sigh and leaned his elbows onto the table. “We’ll go to sept first thing in the morning.”

“There’s no septon,” Pod said.

_What?_ Jaime frowned.

Between them, a servant stole their light, blowing out wicks into wafting trails of smoke. Melted wax hardened within seconds. Her long fingernails pried it up and brushed it away.

“There is a weirwood,” Pod said, leaning back to allow the woman more space to exchange and replace candles.

_I’m not going anywhere near a weirwood._ Jaime’s mood boiled over and soured as his jaw clenched. His eyes glared at Podrick, ready to assault him for suggesting something so ludicrous, but Pod’s wide, child-like eyes halted him. With a tense voice, Jaime asked, “Why in Seven—” Jaime stopped when the servant glanced at him.

“The Old Gods. They have their ceremony in front of the weirwood.” Pod shared a brief smile with the servant as she placed new candles in the center of their table.

_I’ve lived here long enough to become an Old God._ Jaime sneered as he looked over Pod. “You’re from the Westerlands. How do you know this?”

Stumbling, Pod turned to stone. “Uh— In the event I—”

“Find a lady?” Jaime said with a smirk, shared by the servant. She bent over and lit each candle with a long stick, eyes ogling at Pod.

Podrick’s lips twitched into a smile— awkward and hopeful. The woman drew back and away, tending to other candles while Pod’s eyes left with her.

Jaime scoffed and chuckled. Pod didn’t share his humor. Jaime stood and leaned over to pat the young man on the shoulder. Beside them, the servant struggled to light a candle beside a window. Many times, its wick flickered for a second and blew dark from swelling winter winds outside, sneaking in through a slightly ajar window. With no one offering to help close it, Jaime approached the Northern servant and reached over with his good hand. She retreated, cowering away to widen the space between them. Jaime yanked on the open window— his fingers clasped on cold metal, stripping away warmth from his skin. After several pulls, the window knocked into place. Jaime didn’t bother waiting for a thank you and turned around, ready to find Brienne and wrestle her into a dark corner.

But when he turned, Blackfish stood near and said, “Where else is the fresh air supposed to come from?”

Ready to play, Jaime smirked and faced the old fish. Blackfish stood beside his table, now full of other men from Riverrun. They escaped Frey rule and joined forces with the North. Jaime stepped closer and said, “Trouble getting rid of stenching odor? Some things never stop smelling. No fresh air near this table, I’m afraid. Better luck outside.”

“Outside.” Blackfish scoffed. “Where clothes freeze to the hairs on my chest? I will lose as many fingers as you if I go out there, especially at night.”

_He’s as miserable as me in this damn place._ “Without a beard, you’re all swimming upstream.” Jaime said as he rubbed his own graying beard. “A fish can’t swim in frozen water. Take a layer off when you sweat. Your hairs will thank you.”

Blackfish narrowed his eyes and tightened his lips into a fine line as Jaime brushed past him. Jaime had better things to do with his time. 

Later that week, Brienne and Jaime agreed to an Old Gods ceremony. Due to her father being too ill to travel, they asked Podrick to give her away. _She’s already mine._ There were no priests required, nor witnesses, but Winterfell caught wind of their plan. To his surprise, Northerners polished swords and sewed ceremony cloaks. 

Nearly a hundred people stood in silent, bright moonlight while Jaime awaited Podrick and Brienne to arrive at the ceremony. Jaime’s mouth ran dry. _I don’t believe in you, Old Gods, but please help me remember the words._ Weirwood leaves murmured above him, swaying a sweet lullaby as Jaime tried to contain his sprinting heart. He looked to his right, eyes unable to capture the entirety of the weirwood tree in one look. The moon cast shadows against its pale, naked branches, and Jaime stared as if he saw his future. For all he knew, through a single touch against its bark, he would transport back to his _old_ home. But it meant nothing without Brienne.

To his left, Sansa, Bran, the Blackfish and others stood and waited. In the distance, Brienne’s unmistakable figure walked alongside Podrick. Jaime couldn’t remember the last time Brienne wore a dress. White linen spilled down her legs, over her shoulders and arms. Drapes of ripe pomegranate fabric fell over her length. Jaime’s hand clenched and released. With a deep breath, he inhaled scents of earth, dirt and rain. The warm ground beneath them melted ice and snow, mixing it together in soil.

As Brienne stepped closer, the bursting moon favored her with a white illuminating halo. She fought back a smile, silk lips fluttering— and her eyes never left Jaime’s. 

“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?” Sansa said, as Podrick and Brienne stopped in front of Jaime.

Jaime held his breath while Pod’s eyes shifted around to see the large group of people. _Don’t be nervous, Pod._ Short of breath, Jaime dizzied, but a quick smile from Brienne soothed him.

“Brienne of the House Tarth, whom’s here to be wed,” Pod said, sounding as if he practiced. “Heiress to Evenfall and Tarth. She comes to beg the blessings of the Gods.” Podrick paused and said, “Who comes to claim her?”

_Oh shit._ Jaime’s chest rose and fell. The much needed oxygen gave him just enough clarity to remember his words. “Jaime of House Lannister,” Jaime said. “Who gives her?”

“Podrick of House Payne,” Pod said, as his voice cracked. Several giggles echoed through the night air. He cleared his throat and continued, “Her… squire.” His head lowered and lowered until his chin met his chest.

Sansa held back a smile and gazed at Brienne. Sansa asked, “Lady Brienne, will you take this man?”

_Sedate me, so that your salty is sweet_   
_I’m overwhelmed by tasty thoughts of you_   
_Daydream, my pride is waving the white flag_   
_Take me_

Brienne pursed her lips for a moment and said, “I take this man.” 

She stepped forward, holding out her right hand for Jaime to clasp. His cold, sweaty palm met hers: warm and soft. Together, their knees bent and leaned down. Both of them bowed their heads, and each of them stole a quick glance at the other. Brienne squeezed Jaime’s hand. Soon, they rose and removed her maiden cloak. With his stump, Jaime pinned the bride’s cloak around her shoulders.

Now, among the Old Gods _and_ the New Gods, they were wed.

The North watched while Jaime growled and grunted his way to pick up Brienne. His back almost snapped, but he managed to hoist her into his arms, all while her cheeks resembled the red drapes of her dress. She wrapped arms around his neck, gentler than her heart.

Instead of carrying her to a feast, Winterfell saved its food and Jaime heaved her to her chambers— _their_ chambers. Her squirming feet snagged on the doorframe, and she laughed while Jaime huffed for air. Without closing the door, he brought Brienne onto their bed with a thump, and his spreading hand toyed with the chilled hemline of her dress. _Let them watch._ Warm firewood crackled above their hearth, glowing against Brienne’s armor and sword. Above them, high, ebony ceilings gave off an aged lumber scent. For the first time in a long time, he had chambers to be envied. 

Without a word, Brienne thrust him away from her and leapt up— his hand dragged down her calf as she left their bed. She swung their door closed and the delicious click of the latch absorbed into Brienne’s linen dress. 

Jaime’s muscles ached and groaned, and still, he smirked. “I want you naked and under me at all times,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed. _Our bed._

Brienne, more lion than him, prowled forward with a wink and said, “No.”

_No?_

She lunged forward and tackled Jaime to the bed. Four arms and three hands wrestled themselves free of clothing. Jaime’s melted while she pinned him against furs. His breath faltered when Brienne said, “You only get one.”

Dressed in skin, Brienne scaled Jaime. His hand cradled her face while she descended and kissed him. Past the salt coating over her thick lips, the sweet, familiar taste of Brienne dissolved into his mouth. Jaime moaned into her as her thighs straddled his hips. She reached down and seized his cock, paralyzing him. They broke their kiss while Brienne breathed down his neck, mounting him until his cock sank deep inside of her. Teeth dragged on the edge of her lip— and she leaned back, sitting upright. Welcoming the new position, Jaime snaked his hand and stump along her thighs, which entrapped him up to his chest. She lifted herself, gliding around his cock as she arched her back. Brienne found a slow rhythm and reached down to grab his good hand. Jaime yielded, ripped apart by conflicting feelings of pleasure and control. She brought his hand to her breast, and his hand savored her soft, smooth touch.

Moans and grunts caught in Jaime’s throat. He watched as she waved back and forth, mesmerized by her curves and her unpredictable grinding on his cock. Her hand crept between them, stroking herself along while her wetness spilled and spread onto his thighs and groin. Jaime gripped her harder, feeling held back and overwhelmed with passion. _I’m strong enough._ He flexed up his chest and gripped her face while his stump wrapped around her back. She yelped. Her thighs gripped tighter while their breaths weaved between them— and she rode faster. She wouldn’t yield control. Jaime’s head fell back as his pounding heart commanded him to do nothing but surrender.

With a firm hand, she pressed him onto his back and continued to fuck him. Lush gasps through her parted lips elicited low moans from him, making her whimper in return. Her hand remained on his chest, clawing into him while bucking herself closer, closer and closer. So close— Jaime’s cock stiffened, threatening to finish into her. _Brienne—_ His hand reached for her thigh, each finger gripping worthy of a bruise.

“Brienne—” he warned.

She seated herself deeper onto him as her moans lifted higher. Jaime’s core tightened and wavered, building faster. Sweat trickled down rolling goosebumps along Brienne’s skin, and her eyes opened to meet his. It was too late. One grind forward and Jaime spilled over, releasing himself inside of her while their flesh pulsed against each other. Brienne came over him, clenching tighter. He buried himself into her, giving into his primitive drive to consume her. Their moans lost themselves together— Neither of them caring who heard, and Jaime barely heard a sound.

Nothing felt better. Nothing.

Brienne bent down, his cock still inside her, and her soft, glistening skin collided onto his. Despite not moving at all, Jaime caught his breath amid smells of sex, sweat and fire. She held him, just like in his dream— years ago. He stretched to kiss her, enjoying the savory taste of her shoulder.

His heart sped up as soon as it relaxed. “Brienne…” he said. Still warm, his cock softened.

“I know,” she said, nuzzling against the side of his face. Her nose brushed against his beard.

Jaime tensed and asked, “Moon tea?”

“Never.”

Jaime looked down. His cock slipped out, resting against her. He lost words. “You… want…”

“It’s not up to me,” she said, smirking.


	53. Chapter 53

Their home within Winterfell kept them warm. Making love before sleeping kept them warmer. Jaime made a point to pull out every time, convinced he would never be a good father. _Just like I convinced myself I’d never marry?_

_But I know someday I'll make it out of here_   
_Even if it takes all night or a hundred years_

Jaime, naked as his name day, wrapped his arm around his wife’s skin. Brienne had placed more logs on the fire, and it raged into an inferno. Jaime’s eyes devoured her, and she slept on her side, facing him. His good hand reached for her arms, toned and strong. She whimpered, nuzzling her cheek into the pillow. Jaime’s cock hardened as he licked his lips. Unlike every other night, she stripped herself bare and fell right to sleep— without so much of a kiss or hug. _Wake up._ Jaime breathed her in, enjoying a honeyed scent of her days worth of sparring and training. _I need to fuck you._

Selfishly, Jaime trailed his hand over her curves, trying to wake her from a pleasant dream. Her eyes fluttered. Jaime smirked, captivated by her freckles and scars. He studied her, obsessing over the color of her lips. _The same color as…_ Her nipples, several shades darker, stole Jaime’s attention. She loved his caressing hand, and Jaime brought his palm to her breast to tease her awake.

As his palm cupped her breast, she awoke with wide eyes and glared. She batted his hand away and rolled onto her back with a deep sigh.

Jaime blinked and frowned. _You love that._ Jaime narrowed his eyes, wondering if he missed a bruise. _She always wears her armor, that makes no sense._ Her breasts, one of the many features he memorized, widened and filled compared to his memory. Jaime raised his eyebrows and leaned back, assuring himself it was only the firelight playing tricks on him. His eyes, now level with her chest, followed the rolling slope of her breasts and down to a faint bump below her navel.

_Oh shit._

“Bri—” Jaime said, hovering his hand above her shoulder. His heart tripped on itself.

 _No, no, she needs the maester._ Jaime rolled away and flung himself out of bed. He mumbled half-nonsense things while he scrambled for smallclothes, trousers— _No, she needs food._ Jaime hoisted himself into clothes and shook his head. _Gods, I knew it, I knew it, I knew it._ His hand reached the door and stopped. _It’s too late for food, there’s none out._ Jaime shook his head in frantic bursts and stormed over to the fire. _More wood. She can’t be cold._ Jaime forgot to breathe as he tossed a few loud logs into the fire, flames already crackling and popping.

“Jaime, what are you doing?”

He jolted around, wide eyed while he dropped a thick log, thumping to the floor. “Losing my mind,” he said, forcing a small smile. 

Brienne crossed her arms and sat on the edge of the bed. 

For a brief moment, he believed he imagined everything. Jaime closed his eyes and asked, “How late are you?”

Brienne scowled and tilted her head to the side. “What?”

“Moon’s blood, how late are you?” Jaime rushed to her, calculating the answer. They fucked every night for almost a month— with no moon’s blood. Jaime fell to his knees in front of Brienne as her eyes widened. Both of their eyes fixated on her abdomen. Her eyebrows lowered, his raised. An uncontrollable smile erupted on Jaime’s face while she stared off and trembled.

“I—” Brienne held her own stomach, shaking her head. “I need to protect Sansa—”

Jaime rattled his head back and forth, reaching up for her with his hand and stump. Her cheeks, now flushed and red, burned under his touch. Her eyes welled with tears, and he could taste her fear. Jaime believed in her. “You’re a warrior,” he said, leaning closer to her. “Nothing has stopped you so far, don’t let anything start now.”

The maester confirmed the pregnancy the next day, due to her symptoms. Brienne continued to push through every one of them, ignoring the maester’s request to stop training. Jaime encouraged her to eat, and her rustling throughout the night to pee or change positions woke him almost every time. She carried their child well as it swirled and grew in her belly. Jaime wished he had both hands to feel its first discernible kick. They called it quickening. 

Jaime became a doting father without hearing its cry or watching its first breath. He sang to her belly, massaged Brienne’s sore back and feet until his hand could no longer stretch or close. Childbirth scared her the most, but Jaime calmed her through deep breaths and sarcastic quips. They joked the baby trained with them, and would fight better than both of them combined.

Even while pregnant, she still beat everyone into cold, sloshed mud. She hadn’t yet met her match until Arya Stark arrived. The brown haired teenager whirled around Brienne as they sparred. Podrick, Jaime and others watched in awe beside oiled leather and snow. Metal clanked as Arya danced her long rapier against Brienne’s extended armor— almost enraging Jaime to the point of defense. Pod, however, reached out a hand to hold Jaime back and they watched the women’s spar end in a draw.

Winter thickened, week after week, dwindling resources. Jaime hoped— prayed they would survive the season, or at the very least, Brienne would give birth before any impending battles or wars. 

“I think—” Jaime said, laying in bed with Brienne. She was awake, blinking and staring at the dark swirls in the wooden ceiling because the baby jabbed her into insomnia. She waited for Jaime to finish his thought, a thought he knew she wouldn’t like. “If we go to battle... I think… you should be in the crypts, in the event—”

“Ser Jaime,” she said, using his name to scorn him. She ruptured into a fierce frown and her hands threatened to wring his neck.

“I know, I know, I know, just— Do you really think—” Jaime held up his hand, palm forward. “If anything happens before—” 

“Nothing has stopped me. I won’t let it start now.”

Again, his own words came back to haunt him. Jaime closed his eyes and rubbed his thumb along the inside of his fingers.

Later that night, they pushed past their argument and visited Lady Sansa for an urgent meeting. Inside a warm, large room, Sansa sat dressed and waiting for them. Arya, with Bran’s dagger strapped to her hip, stood by her sister’s side, alongside Bran who huddled amidst furs in his wheelchair. Blackfish and other lords stood by Sansa’s fire.

Jaime nodded as Brienne entered and turned his head to leave. 

“No, stay, Ser Jaime,” Sansa said.

Jaime stopped and frowned as he turned around.

Sansa lifted her chin and drew in a large breath. “Ravens have come,” she said. “The Wall has fallen, and the dead march south. Jon is sailing here.” Sansa paused and winced. “With… the Dragon Queen.”

Everyone, even Jaime, stared off into their own thoughts. _The Wall fell?_ Jaime shook his head, unable to believe it. His eyes fell as Sansa said she would welcome Queen Daenerys into their home, as it was Jon’s request. He cleared his throat, ready to beg Sansa to reconsider. _She’s going to burn King’s—_

“Ser Jaime,” Sansa said, pulling Jaime out of his thoughts. “I suggest you keep your distance, considering your history.”

Jaime frowned and met eyes with Bran, who nodded. 

In two weeks time, Jaime hunkered against walls as the thunder of flying dragons rolled over Winterfell. Screams of Northerner’s shitting themselves compared little to the piercing shrieks of those huge monsters. Bigger than planes, they soared. Wind blew off their wings like massive jets, ready to swallow Jaime whole. He didn’t believe he’d see dragons in his lifetime— they were extinct in modern times. And these were the last dragons alive. He peered over a ledge to see a sea of marching men entering Winterfell’s gates at a fast cadence. Even his aging eyes could see Queen Daenerys upon her horse, marching with her men and Jon beside her. _I need to hide._

 _Fuck that._ He did no such thing, and prowled upper decks while the Dragon Queen dismounted her horse. His eyes fixed on her as his throat tightened. The beautiful queen smiled, and Jaime wondered if he misremembered history. But everything stopped when a little bearded man stepped out of a carriage. Tyrion. His heart quickened.

Jaime rumbled down the stairs, flying through dark, shadowed corridors he memorized from living at Winterfell. He came out into the courtyard, and Tyrion’s broadening eyes spotted him. His small hands pressed forward, urging Jaime to step back and away. Jaime stepped closer and Tyrion shook his head and shuffled forward. Neither of them cared the moment Jaime’s body lowered to pull Tyrion into a tight embrace. 

“It is a bit cold, shall we go somewhere more warm?” Varys said, holding himself and smiling. His eyes nodded over to an open door, somewhere hidden from his queen.

Inside, Varys watched a servant throw several logs into a dying fire. It weezed with the wind, and it felt no warmer inside than out. Jaime smiled, even at the sight of his brother’s red nose and cheeks. Tyrion hummed and rubbed his hands together. Jaime swore he could smell the sea breeze drift off his brother.

“You have a beard now,” Jaime said.

Tyrion reached for his own beard and stroked it with a smile. He said, “I look as wise as I am. You look wiser than you really are.”

They both laughed. Jaime sat on a stool and placed his gloved hand on his golden one. Tyrion’s eyes left Jaime and scanned the room. Jaime simmered down into a smile and said, “Father would be proud.”

Tyrion straightened his back and tightened his lips. Varys, still huddling by the fire, glanced over with a plain expression. The servant left their room.

Jaime sighed and gazed at his golden hand. It was one of the last symbols of Lannister left, except Brienne’s overflowing belly. Jaime loved his family, but Cersei and his father held small, dark corners of his heart. Jaime cleared his throat and asked, “Do you know who killed him?”

Tyrion’s eyes and head rolled around before he sighed. “I did.”

Jaime winced. “Why?”

“It was a long time ago,” Tyrion said, grimacing.

A vein throbbed in Jaime’s neck. With a stronger tone, Jaime asked, “Why?”

Tyrion clenched his jaw and clasped his hands together in a tight twist. “Because I caught him fucking my lover. You wouldn’t do the same?”

Jaime blinked and looked away. If the Gods made Jaime pick between his father or brother, Jaime would choose his brother every time. Jaime closed his eyes, preparing to ramble on about how Tyrion’s decision put Jaime at risk.

Varys walked over and said, “My Lords, we have more urgent concerns at hand. Queen Daenerys knows you’re here. She requests your presence.”

Jaime’s stomach weaved into a tangle his breath couldn’t unwind. He couldn’t hide from the Dragon Queen forever. 

When summoned to speak with her in the Great Hall, Tyrion waddled beside him, forcing a weak smile. The North hated him for his name… a family at war with the Starks for years. This woman hated him for an entire life of adversity. If the previous Jaime hadn’t killed her father, she would have been a princess— living in a peaceful, lush King’s Landing. Jaime turned a corner with his brother, arriving closer to his death. _Gods, don’t let Brienne be there._ Jaime adjusted his right sleeve as he walked alongside Tyrion.

“Don’t be so nervous,” Tyrion said to Jaime as guards unlatched the Great Hall’s doors.

“I’m not nervous,” Jaime said, frowning for a brief moment. 

Inside, the small, straight-postured Dragon Queen made him nervous. She sat in the middle, between Sansa and Jon, with her shoulders pulled back. Her eyes tucked under thick, lowered brows. Open and faced forward, her hands rested on wide arms of her chair. She inhaled slow, calm breaths— but her eyes refused to leave Jaime as he stepped into the middle of the room.

Tyrion and Varys stepped beside the table, and leathered, armored guards with spears blocked off the entrance— entrapping Jaime in the Great Hall. His heart did double time, threatening to burst when he saw Brienne step behind Sansa. Brienne wore no armor, due to her swollen belly, and her hand rested beside Oathkeeper’s pommel. _Gods, don’t let her do anything stupid._

Sansa remained quiet and held her chin level. Jon, on the opposite side of the Queen, leaned into his chair and brooded. 

A young woman stepped forward and introduced her queen. While she spoke, Tyrion locked eyes with his brother, while almost every other eye surveyed Jaime. By the tightening gaze from the Dragon Queen, Jaime feared his fate had already been decided.

Queen Daenerys said, “When I was a child, my brother would tell me a bedtime story. About the man who murdered my father.” Her voice was deep and rich, but her words were sharp. “The Kingslayer opened my father’s throat with a golden sword. I should sentence you to death.”

Jaime swallowed and stared forward. His fingernails dug into the flesh of his palm while his phantom hand tingled. He inhaled a deep breath, unable to fill his lungs with the cold air because his chest tightened. He opened his mouth, ready to insult her— but the thought of Brienne made him close his eyes.

“I think that is unwise, Your Grace,” Sansa said. “Ser Jaime helped my family take back the North from the Boltons. He is more loyal to us than to Cersei.”

Several Northern lords around them murmured their agreement. Jaime frowned and gazed around. _These bastards are defending me?_

Queen Daenerys tucked her chin lower and tilted her head towards Jon. Without taking her sneering eyes off Jaime, she asked Jon, “What does the Warden of the North say about it?”

Jon sighed. “The dead are already marching here. We need every man we can get.”

After a long pause and clenched jaw, the Queen said, “Very well. We will decide your fate after.”

Jaime let out a held breath and bowed. “Thank you, Your Grace.” He remained still and standing while Sansa, the Queen, Jon, Brienne, Tyrion and Varys exited the Great Hall. Northern lords stayed behind and when Jaime turned to walk by them, they offered him a single nod. Jaime nodded back. A lion was more wolf than dragon.


	54. Chapter 54

A thread, threatening to unravel at any moment, Jaime sat outside next to his brother. His armor clanked against the stone wall while they held steaming bean soup. Sun beat down on them, yet Tyrion’s face still burned red. Jaime gazed at his bowl. He didn’t mind the flavor: fish stew— again. But his stomach clenched at the thought of his family. Brienne, ready to burst, hadn’t been feeling well, and stayed in their bed to rest. She insisted Jaime spar and train and their quick argument had ended with Jaime ceding.

Jaime frowned and glanced over the courtyard. With Daenerys’ men, horses and _dragons_ , Winterfell appeared crowded. In the two weeks since her arrival, tons and tons of dragonglass weapons had been created. Trebuchets built. Trenches dug. Jaime started to believe such a battle was coming, but it sounded distant compared to his worry for Brienne. Despite his ability and determination to protect her, he couldn’t stand the thought of her fighting while so… pregnant.

Tyrion, beside him, finished his soup and sighed. A clean emblem of a hand pinned to his chest. Tyrion raised his eyebrows and said, “I watched Daven ride into a dragon’s mouth.”

Jaime glared at his little brother. Based on Tyrion’s lingering eyes, he wasn’t joking. Minerals and mining from dragonglass swirled through Jaime’s lungs before he let out a sigh. “Can’t say I miss him.”

“I’m glad it wasn’t you.”

Jaime nodded. He, usually, loved small talk or the mention of karma— but his mind remained constricted.

“You’re up here, in the North,” Tyrion said, handing off his empty bowl to a person with a tray. “With… the no longer Maid of Tarth?”

Jaime gave his brother a quick scowl. _I can’t fault the guy for his humor._ “She’s sworn to protect Lady Stark.”

“And sworn to you. Carrying the Lannister line. I’m happy that you finally have to climb for it.” Jaime sneered and rolled his eyes. Tyrion laughed and continued, “Do you know how long I’ve waited to tell tall person jokes? To climbing mountains.” Tyrion paused, glanced around and said, “What’s she like down there?”

“What?” Jaime asked, widening his eyes.

Tyrion held back a smirk and lifted his brows.

“That’s not your concern,” Jaime said. In front of him, gates opened. Several horses cantered in, and Jon appeared, running towards them.

Tyrion continued, “I haven’t been with a woman for years—” 

Jaime held up a hand as he walked away, rushing over to join the arriving men. Northerners, with thick beards, long hair and bulky cloaks dismounted to greet Jon. Tyrion followed behind Jaime, who stepped closer. His eyes were drawn to a tall, red headed man he swore he remembered. _That man from Castle Black._ Jaime narrowed his eyes as he approached. 

The moment Jon called an urgent meeting, Jaime rushed the other direction to get Brienne. He barged through their door and startled her awake. Bags swelled under her eyes and she wore just a tunic and set of trousers.

“Gods, you keep it hot enough in here,” Jaime said.

“What is it?” Brienne held her large belly as she rolled herself to sitting. 

Jaime reached out for her to grab his arms. “Jon’s called a meeting,” he said, waiting for her to use him for support. Upon closer look, her neck and upper chest flushed and her eyes sank deeper. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Fine. I have to take a piss.”

_My lovely, elegant wife._ Jaime clenched his jaw and bit back his thoughts. _You’re not fine._ He knew her well enough not to agitate her, and reached for her cloak, sword belt and Oathkeeper. They walked together— Brienne trying her best to walk faster than him and Jaime allowed her. _Gods, this is all my fault._

Jon’s meeting took place in a dark room with a large table. On it, a map of Winterfell and hundreds of stones represented armies. Small rooms filled with people always felt warm, stuffy and uncomfortable. Brienne, more sensitive than most, preferred clean, fresh air. Jaime stayed beside her as they shuffled their way to the table, and he openly glared at the red haired man’s agape mouth. 

“They’re coming tonight,” Jon said. “We have dragonglass and Valyrian steel. But there are too many of them. Far too many. Our enemy doesn’t tire. Doesn’t stop. Doesn’t feel. We can’t beat them in a straight fight.”

_No, no, no— tonight?_ Jaime’s heart sank. She wouldn’t give birth in time, and the realization chilled him. Jaime frowned— until Brienne grunted beside him. His eyes shot over to hers, which were clenched shut. _What is it?_ Jaime leaned closer. Arya, Daenerys, Bran, Sansa, Blackfish, Jon— almost everyone spoke except Jaime and Brienne, who lived a world away at this moment. Jaime’s chest hammered while his eyes tired from analyzing her every expression.

Brienne loosened her features after a minute passed and blinked. “I am fine,” she whispered.

Jaime blinked back and glanced at the table. Hundreds of white stones piled beyond Winterfell, and only a handful of black stones defended it. Jaime shook his head as he barely listened to anything anyone said. By the time he focused, Brienne clenched her hands against the table and squeezed her eyes shut.

“Get the maester, please,” Jon said, gazing over at Brienne.

With clenched jaw and grinding teeth, Brienne said, “I am fine, My Lord.” Brienne closed her eyes and inhaled a shaky breath.

“Brienne,” Jaime whispered and placed his hand on her belly. It was rock hard.

“Pay attention,” she said, batting away his hand. But the meeting was already over.

Until the maester arrived, Jaime paced through the room while Tyrion stayed for moral support, offering several goblets of wine, to which Jaime almost knocked out of his hands. Brienne sat on a chair while the maester asked her questions and felt her stomach. Jaime forgot to breathe, forgetting a battle approached them… hours away— nothing mattered except Brienne.

The maester turned away from Brienne and walked to Jaime and Tyrion. He said, “We need to bring her to the labor bed.”

Jaime’s breathing stopped.

“Now? Can’t you make it stop?” Tyrion asked. Behind the maester, Brienne grimaced and clenched. She strained to keep herself quiet.

“She has been in labor for quite some time, I am afraid,” the maester said, fidgeting with his long cloak.

“Let’s go—” Jaime said, “To the crypts. All of us.”

Tyrion held one of Brienne’s hands while Jaime held the other, and the four of them crept their way to the crypts. Brienne failed to understand what was happening, lost in her own thoughts and struggle. _She still thinks she's going to fight._

In Winterfell’s crypts, Jaime ignored the dying candlelight. He ignored the shrieking of children and constricting, low ceilings. He ignored the faces of death and graves, all gazing at them as they rushed Brienne to a far corner in the crypts. Dry dust kicked up as they dragged their feet through, and by the time Brienne lay down, Jaime had been holding half of her weight up. He ignored everything and everyone except her. She breathed through each contraction, petrified in a grimace. When her body gave her a chance to breathe, Brienne moved and changed positions. She reached out for him, almost ripping his armor in half. Jaime tried his best to comfort her with words of encouragement, massages or holding her hand—

Until he heard horns.

Jaime trembled while Brienne writhed under him. She was so lost in her own battle, and he needed her to win. Jaime blinked back the welling in his eyes.

“Who is going to command her flank?” Tyrion asked, stepping forward.

Jaime frowned and shook his head. It was a hard decision: deciding between fighting beside her or fighting above ground. After closing his eyes, Jaime said, “I will.” He reached to hold her hand, clutching the edge of her tunic. 

Tyrion leaned closer to Jaime and scowled.

Jaime let go of Brienne’s tunic and reached down to grab Oathkeeper, resting beside her on the floor. “Keep her safe,” Jaime said, almost losing his voice. “Keep _them_ safe, no matter what.”

Tyrion blinked several times and sighed. After a quick nod, he said, “They’re family now. I’ll guard them with my life.”

Jaime tucked Oathkeeper under his right arm and patted his brother’s shoulder. He returned to her once before, he would do it again.

He met cold air above ground. Darkness covered every surface, even the sky. _Not even a single star bleeds through._ Jaime pushed and brushed through hundreds of men and women to reach the left flank: Brienne’s fighters. His pounding heart ripped with every step he took away from her— them. Pod spotted Jaime and shouted, running to him.

“Where is she?” Pod asked.

Jaime pushed forward. “Crypts. Giving birth.”

Speechless, Podrick scrambled to catch up with Jaime and followed behind. 

Outside Winterfell’s gates, Jaime reached the front of the left flank on the top of the hill and stood face to face with Blackfish. His breath vaporized through a small beard. He stepped to the side, giving Jaime enough room to stand in the front. Jaime gripped Oathkeeper so tightly, he feared he may break it. Amidst the whispering, quiet wind, Jaime closed his eyes. He imagined Brienne: screaming, shouting, bleeding. His mouth ran dry. His eyes searched ahead, seeing no trees and no enemy. 

Minutes passed by like hours. _Every minute I’m away from her… them…_

The wind whistled.

Dothraki, a horde of a cavalry, lifted their swords as contagious fire spread between them— lighting every arakh. With a battle cry, they galloped forward, leaving silence behind in their place.

Silence returned. One by one, horses without men galloped back. Men scurried away.

_If Jaime can do this, so can I._ Jaime had never been in a battle, never even truly fought. But as Blackfish and Podrick crouched, so did Jaime. They guarded themselves as dragons flew above them. 

Like a nightmare, murmuring, groaning dead bodies leapt out of the darkness and cascaded over everyone. _They’re real—_ Jaime gripped Oathkeeper and braced himself, right shoulder forward to take the brunt of the damage. They towered over them, humming so loudly Jaime could hardly hear his own pulse. It was worse than he imagined. “Stand your ground!” Jaime shouted, refusing to give into fear.

_Houses burnt beyond repair_   
_The smell of death is in the air_

He gripped Oathkeeper harder and slashed forward. _I didn’t train for nothing._ The blade sliced through frozen, rotting flesh, releasing an odd mummified stench. Even if he had two hands, he would not have been able to hold his ground. There were too many of them. The dead pushed them back, back, and back— even when dragon fire rained down on the masses of dead bodies come to life. _Just make it to dawn._ Jaime swiped into them, again and again. He commanded his arm no choice to become tired. Brienne had no choice, and he intended to live.

Beyond their ghost groans, Jaime gave them the kiss of death with one slash after another— but more kept coming. Several dead swarmed Pod, and Jaime abandoned his position to help him. After their struggle, the two of them rescued Blackfish, already covered in blackened blood. The three of them helped as many people as possible push back to the gates. Blackfish commanded everyone to pull back. _We’re going to die._

Falling snow hit, surrounding them in a haunting wind and white blur.

In an instant, air turned orange— and the lit trenches allowed them to cross back into the gates. _I can’t let them die._ Jaime crossed the trench, blocking several dead from snatching Podrick and Blackfish. Through deep, wavering breaths, Jaime reached safety— for a time. The trench allowed him a moment to breathe and stare at oppressive death in front of him. His arms ached, and Jaime closed his eyes. _I should go to the crypts._ But he knew they wouldn’t let him in.

Blackfish yanked on Jaime’s shoulder, pulling him away from the trenches. All three of them knew it was only a matter of time for the dead to overcome the trenches. Winterfell’s walls were next.

Jaime ascended up stairs and arrived at a battlement. Several men trembled and held themselves beside crenels. And as expected, the dead overcame the trenches and crept up walls. Jaime slashed them as they came up, and what was once easy became impossible. More came. Jaime stabbed his way through bodies with a tight rhythm: quick attack and quick release. The dead’s groans overpowered the dying’s wails, and Jaime’s aching hand gripped Oathkeeper firmer. Sweat pooled down Jaime’s body, mixing and swirling the taste of blood and salt into his eyes, nose and mouth. He rested his back against Podrick and Blackfish, both covered in sticky gore. Together, the three of them held their ground on a battlement. Like a call and response, Jaime lunged forward when Blackfish and Pod stepped back as they fought through air filled with burning flesh. Jaime never let go of Oathkeeper.

The dead outnumbered the living, and Jaime yelped when several of them grabbed his golden hand. He yanked his stump back, releasing the useless thing while dozens more toppled over him. Podrick and Blackfish shouted and tackled them— but it was no use. The weight of the dead would kill Jaime far faster than their magic or their weapons. Jaime closed his eyes as his fingers wrapped and tightened around Oathkeeper’s pommel. _Brienne…_ He drew in his last breath— and the dead collapsed. In a wave, they fell, disintegrating and tugging Jaime down with them— until Blackfish dropped his sword and grabbed Jaime’s breastplate. With a single yank, Blackfish heaved Jaime through a crenel and they toppled over clanking skeletons.

Jaime’s head spun. He glanced around. All of the dead were still, as they were meant to be. And he wasn’t where _he_ was meant to be.

Blackfish and Pod lay in a heap among rotting flesh while Jaime stumbled to standing. He tripped, fell and scrambled his way to the crypts— past burning destruction and chaos.

At the crypts door, Jaime pounded Oathkeeper’s hilt against the wooden barrier— pleading for someone, anyone to let him in.

He almost wished they didn’t.

His heart stopped as he entered. Dead bodies littered the floor, and it was just as much of a mess as above ground. Women and children cried. He ran through hot, humid air and the terrorizing smell of blood coated his throat. His fingers clenched around Oathkeeper.

On the far corner, stood Tyrion and Sansa, both transformed to stone at the sight of him.

Jaime ran faster.

Both of them stepped aside, and Jaime turned to see Brienne covered in fur blankets up to her neck. The maester hovered over her as Jaime rushed forward. With Oathkeeper still in hand, dripping blood, Jaime heaved for air and leaned closer. The maester shuffled away, and Brienne’s eyes met Jaime’s. Through glistening sweat and hair clinging to her face, Brienne smiled. Jaime blinked, heart stopping as Brienne pulled down fur to reveal a small, suckling baby.

Jaime let go of Oathkeeper.

“Galladon,” she said.


	55. Chapter 55

Jaime nodded past several guards as he walked through the hallway to his family’s room. The Northerners nodded back, only once, and allowed Jaime to pass with room for a large satchel swinging behind his back. He was able to convince the Dragon Queen to postpone his trial after she took the Iron Throne. _Dead queens can’t make decisions._ His bruises had healed from the battle, already four weeks prior. _Hopefully, my last battle._ Time hastened with a newborn, and it floated away faster with the additional goal of rebuilding Winterfell.

Jaime entered their room and paused at the sight of a young woman reaching over Brienne and Galladon, laying in bed. The sound of Jaime startled them, all except the baby, whose slow hand waved around while he nursed. Gilly, the young woman, turned around and offered Jaime a blushing smile. Jaime pressed his lips into a tight smile and turned to the fire. He had no interest bothering them, since Gilly had been helping Brienne learn how to breastfeed.

Jaime set down his satchel and peered over the room. A mess, as usual. Wool nappies littered the floor— even Galladon’s cot. Several mothers and the maester argued over why Galladon needed so many nappies, but Jaime insisted. It shocked him to learn babies were kept in soiled clothes all day— and he wouldn’t stand for that. Jaime leaned down to pick up a wool nappy and smelled it. Poop. Jaime winced.

“It smells worse when they eat food,” Gilly said.

Jaime scowled harder. “...Worse?”

Gilly giggled and Brienne smirked.

Jaime held back his urge to roll his eyes and looked to the window. It was morning. But it felt like night. Jaime and Brienne woke up nearly every three hours to feed the crying babe. Jaime tried to help when he could, but his phantom hand never did anything. During the night, Brienne fed and changed him, while Jaime rocked him to sleep— which, sometimes didn’t happen. During the day, Jaime carried the napping Galladon, handed him off to Gilly, a servant, or anyone to help change his nappy, and followed Brienne as she worked while Galladon nursed. Northerners never mocked or minded Jaime’s frazzled character or Galladon snacking. In fact, they commended Brienne for working.

Gilly excused herself out of their room and Galladon drifted off to sleep at Brienne’s breast. Jaime walked over, hand held out, and leaned over to kiss Brienne’s forehead. He stared down at Galladon, the bald little thing. He cooed and randomly suckled, even while asleep. Jaime’s heart swelled until Brienne glared at him.

“What’s in there?” Brienne asked, nodding her chin towards the satchel.

Jaime let out a small, singular laugh and looked with her. “I’ll show you,” he said, and walked over and hooked his stump through a small loop. His good hand reached in, and avoiding sharp edges, he pulled out several baked pasties. “From the kitchen.”

“You stole them?” Brienne asked, managing a thin smile.

“I did not!” Jaime said, widening his eyes at her. “I said Galladon was hungry.”

Brienne held back a smile before she looked down at their baby. Galladon’s eyes fluttered open as his hand twitched against her chest.

Jaime smiled, mesmerized by the look of him. He couldn’t quite tell who he looked like more— not yet at least. He breathed out a sigh of relief and said, “Little bub.”

“Bub?” Brienne asked, frowning.

_That’s what everyone calls babies where I’m from._ Jaime raised his eyebrows and smirked. “At least you didn’t name him Renly.”

Brienne scoffed, and Galladon jerked against her, rising awake in a fuss. Jaime set down the buttery pastries on the bed and reached to help calm him. She snuggled the babe closer as Jaime’s hand touched his warm, smooth and delicate head. His cheek flattened and squished against Brienne’s breast as he entered his dream again, and between his tiny lips, came out small coos.

His parents smiled.

Jaime turned to the satchel, ready to reveal his last gift to her. _She will either kill me or—_

“He sounds like music,” she said.

“What did you say?” Jaime asked. He peered over his shoulder at her.

Brienne gazed down at Galladon and said again, “He sounds like music.”

_You will make music that brings tears to your eyes._

The woods witch’s words paralyzed him, flooding over him. His heart filled, pouring a warmth into him he couldn’t describe. _She knew, this entire time, she knew._ Jaime’s eyes welled, and he clenched them closed. His hand gripped a stem inside the satchel, hard enough for thorns to pierce through skin. Jaime blinked his eyes open, almost trembling as he pulled out a crimson rose. He had been waiting for the glass garden’s rose bush to bloom for… forever. He had been waiting to give her a rose for even longer. He _did_ steal this gift, but he would do it all again.

“Jaime—”

“For you,” Jaime said, holding out the leafed stem for her to accept. His eyes, wet and blurry, looked away from her. _I'm such a fucking sap._

The weight lifted out of Jaime’s hands, and Brienne accepted it.

Silence deafened him, and his fingers clenched and rolled against one another. He couldn’t keep quiet. “Remember? In that tent?” He said, “You said you would rather have a sword over a rose. But now you have both.” Jaime forced a weak smile as his heart started to race. 

Brienne’s lips curved into a pitiful smile and she reached forward with her free hand. After clasping it in his, she said, “I have always had both.”

Jaime’s eyes threatened to fill again. Through several blinks and a firm grip of her hand, he smiled back at her.

Together, they prepared for the day, armor, sword and swaddles in hand. Their day felt like every other day, until at supper, Queen Daenerys announced they would be leaving to take King’s Landing. Jaime winced through the flickering candlelight and held Galladon closer. The Dragon Queen tapped her fingers against her chair and frowned whenever she thought no one looked. It killed Jaime to know her future— King’s Landing’s future. _If I kill her, I can save hundreds of thousands of people._ Jaime continued the thought until his eyes met with Bran, who sat across the hall. Bran had been staring right at Jaime. _He knows. He’s letting it happen._ Jaime glanced away, confronted by the reality of his own responsibility. Galladon murmured in his arms and stole his attention. To his surprise, Galladon opened his eyes and stared up at him. Jaime smiled and gazed back. Years ago, he would have killed a dragon to save people, but in this moment, staring at his son… only family mattered. _I promise not to leave you._

_Time stops to fix its mistakes._ Jaime frowned. _Ash Landing isn’t a mistake._

“He looks like me,” Tyrion said, waddling up to Jaime’s bench.

Jaime let out a small sigh and sneered at his brother. “How?”

Tyrion placed his ale goblet on the far side of the table and leaned closer to peek into Jaime’s arms. “Small.”

Jaime smirked and lowered his head. He had to hold himself back from laughing. Jaime imagined himself shrugging and said, “We’ll see who’s taller in ten years.”

Tyrion chuckled. “You are staying... in this time, I take it?” He hopped up next to Jaime and gazed about the room. Almost everyone was a Northerner, except a few of the Dragon Queen’s soldiers. Still, they kept to themselves and Northerners were weary of them. 

“Of course,” Jaime said, frowning. He had no intention of returning to the future. It was his past now.

Tyrion tilted his head and smiled. “To think I move around more than you, it’s quite a wonder. We are sailing to King’s Landing tomorrow.”

“Already?” Jaime’s brows lowered. 

“Come with us. You can raise Galladon there without either of your balls freezing over.”

Jaime’s stomach lurched. His mouth dried. Jaime parted his lips and stared off into a group of candles in the middle of the table. Jaime shook his head. “No. I’m not going anywhere near that place while she’s here.”

“Cersei will be gone soon, you don’t—”

“I don’t mean Cersei,” Jaime said, glaring at his brother. 

_Oh, what to say_   
_When the right words fail to find the light of day_

Tyrion’s head drifted back a bit and his eyes squinted. After blinking, Tyrion forced a faint smile. “You’re not the first man to question her.”

Jaime swallowed and frowned deeper. “And I don’t want you to be the last. Stay clear of King’s Landing. Don’t let this boy lose his only uncle.”

Galladon rustled in Jaime’s arms while Tyrion scowled, continuing to stare at Jaime.

“Shh,” Jaime said, rocking his son, cradled in his right arm. Galladon’s face scrunched until a loud, wet toot shook within the swaddle.

Tyrion and Jaime looked up at each other with wide eyes. Jaime flashed a look of desperation across the room for someone, anyone to help. Brienne had just fed him, and she had already exited with Sansa. Jaime stood, peering around for Gilly or a servant to help. Tyrion stood with him, and the two brothers were lost.

“Care to help?” Jaime asked, offering a small smile.

Tyrion’s lips tightened and he gave a single nod.

Jaime reached into a small bag tied to his belt, a glorified leather nappy bag, and felt around for a wool nappy. Nothing was in there. _Oh shit._

“Looking for this?” Blackfish said, standing behind the three of them with a dark wool nappy stuck between two pinched fingers.

Jaime’s mouth dropped open.

Blackfish smirked, set the wool on the table and reached forward. He said, “I found it on the floor.”

Jaime glanced at the man’s gloved hands, who still stretched out his palms. _He wants Galladon?_ With a deep breath, Jaime lifted the swaddled baby into Blackfish’s arms. Jaime frowned as Blackfish scowled down at the baby. “You ever change a baby before?” Jaime asked.

“First time for everything,” Blackfish said, gently setting the baby down on the table.

Jaime nodded and coached him through it while Tyrion’s small hands tried to help. Northerners could care less about changing a baby on a table, and Blackfish even less. Jaime wiped with his one good hand, somehow avoiding all poop, and helped Blackfish slide on a fresh nappy. Jaime held his breath while he rolled the soiled one into the bag on his belt. _A surprise for Brienne, later._

Jaime almost laughed when he saw Blackfish and Tyrion try their hand at swaddling a baby. They failed, even with four hands. Jaime held back a growing smirk and leaned over, using his stump and good hand to wrap the baby in a tight, breathable cocoon. Jaime glanced over at Blackfish and said, “You’re not going to King’s Landing, are you?”

Blackfish scoffed. “I swore I would never set foot in that pile of shit again.” His eyes followed Galladon as Jaime picked him up and rocked him. Blackfish’s head tilted with a small smile before he adorned a fresh frown. He said to both of the Lannister brothers, “Not sure which one of you is a lord anymore. But my nephew Edmure is held captive at your Rock. Our rightful home is Riverrun—”

“That it is,” Jaime said, saving the man more air. Blackfish didn’t need to say any more. Jaime straightened his back. “Tullys belong in Riverrun. You have my word,” Jaime said, “If you trust it.”

Blackfish’s rough, wrinkled face scowled and nodded. “I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta reader wanted me to include a scene where Jaime sees a Starbucks cup after the battle. I declined his request, but I think it's funny to share. XD


	56. Chapter 56

“You have about an hour before he starts complaining,” Brienne said, handing off Galladon to Podrick. The teen accepted the wide eyed baby amidst quick, terrified nods.

“Is he a squire or a babysitter?” Jaime asked, repressing a wince. Liquid sloshed in his stomach. “Don’t let him fall off the rails. Although, I bet he’s a better swimmer than me or his mother,” Jaime said as their ship rolled in the sea. They, and most other Northern lords and ladies sailed from White Harbor to King’s Landing. _King’s Landing’s ashes._ Northerners wouldn’t have usually made such a journey, but Jon Snow’s life depended on it.

Brienne glanced over and sneered at Jaime. She struggled appreciating his jokes after so many deaths. Jaime found it impossible to lose his humor, even after hearing Cersei’s death. As Jaime suspected, Daenerys did not live much longer. Jon was the Queenslayer. And the entire reason for recruiting Pod to watch Galladon for an hour was to give Jaime and Brienne time to discuss Tarth. Selwyn had passed away, and as heiress to Tarth and Evenfall Hall, Brienne needed to decide what to do with them. 

“Of course not, Ser— My Lord—” Pod turned to Brienne, “My Lady.”

Jaime disliked Pod’s fidgeting, and Galladon seated upright in Pod’s cradling arms. Jaime stepped over while Brienne took a seat at her desk— scrolls strewn everywhere. As he approached, Galladon’s piercing blue eyes fixed on a dark swirl in the open wooden door. He was only four months old, but already had Brienne’s hair and eyebrows. Galladon inherited Jaime’s lips, chin and lush eyelashes. Personality was anyone’s guess… However, he gave his parents breaks at night by sleeping long stretches. He made up for it by struggling to nap throughout the day. He loved being on his tummy, training every day for his first crawl.

Pod gently bounced Galladon in his arms, and when the baby’s head started to roll, Pod reached a hand up to support it. Jaime softened and smiled. _He’ll be fine._ “Thank you, Pod. I’ll stay here and help Brienne.”

After a nod, several smiles and an agonizing goodbye, Jaime closed the door. The lack of Galladon’s coos left a void behind. Jaime could only hear wood creaking and bubbling waves billow against the edge of their small cabin in the ship. He let out a sigh, frowning as Brienne settled into her work. She wore a new set robe, tunic and jerkin, gifted by Lady Sansa. Jaime and Brienne had mountains to be thankful for— and yet, Jaime couldn’t rub the frustration out of his temples. He did not look forward to King’s Landing, however far away it was from the North. It was also far from home.

_I rise, you fall, we wreck it all_  
_My pride is at your beck and call_

Jaime stepped up to Brienne and reached out to rub her shoulder. Her quill stopped mid-sentence, and her left hand reached up to clasp his own. Jaime closed his eyes. He felt horrible hoping for home when many, many thousands of people died. So many people lost loved ones— entire families. _At least I have mine._

Brienne lifted a cloth drenched in minty oils. “Are you sick?” She asked.

Jaime opened his eyes and gazed down. “I’m fine,” he said, offering a small smile. Over time, his stomach grew used to the nausea. “Other than missing Galladon, who’s only been gone two minutes, I’m fine. At least he’s with his much older brother.”

Brienne smirked and set her quill down. “I would like another.”

Jaime squinted his eyes as his head tilted. Her straightforwardness never ceased to surprise him. She turned away from her desk and turned to face him with a curving smile. _If you’re just teasing me to avoid paperwork—_

“Bolt the door,” she said.

 _You don’t have to say it again._ Jaime fastened the bolt in while they unfastened their clothes. Her white love burned red as she cowered backwards toward their bed with a smirk. Jaime knew that look. She wanted him to conquer her. She put up a fragile fight under his tackling hand. Her knees separated while she stifled a giggle— long gone her shyness and her will to play her game. Jaime growled and pinned his weight on her, his cock drowning deeper into her with each thrust. She caved in and against him, her hot breath humming against his fingers, which dragged over her mouth. 

“Jaime,” she said, and he thrust deeper. A brute sweetness. She stretched down to touch herself. Her smooth chest reddened under his beard, and her flush spread as she peaked. For a moment, her lusty moans were louder than the sea’s heaving tidings. Her hands tugged and embraced him while his thrusts turned erratic. For years, he held himself back when his spine shivered, but now— he gave in. He aimed to fill her as much as she filled him. His cock stiffened, soon pouring itself into her while his body tensed and melted over hers. Their sweating skin stuck together as Brienne pulled him closer, both short of breath. He never wanted to leave.

But duty commanded it. Once Jaime smelled the ash from King’s Landing, he turned somber again. Their ship docked and exited onto another planet, one void of anything living. Now, it made sense why Ashlanding looked nothing like King’s Landing. Little of King’s Landing remained. And while Jaime stepped over crumbling rubble and mountains of dust, he still felt… guilty. He looked to his left. Brienne, dressed in her armor, hugged Galladon tighter before she handed him off to Pod. _I said nothing for them. Family matters more than anything._

And Tyrion, when he waddled out with the Unsullied into the Dragonpit… Jaime might have been the only person who smiled to see him. Everyone else, a lord or lady of Westeros, glared at the little man.

“Where is Jon?” Sansa asked, her lips pressing until they were white.

A ghosting wind flew from behind Jaime. It was eerily quiet. The sun, shy as a child, hid behind clouds while Tyrion forced a smile. “He is still—”

“We did not come all this way to hear you talk about him,” Sansa said, finality in her tone.

“We should execute him… for murdering—”

“Say one more word about—” 

“Please, please,” Tyrion said, holding out his hands. Jaime bit his tongue, watching his brother try to command a bitter audience. Half wanted Jon free, half wanted him dead. Tyrion, with a freshly trimmed beard and wilting eyes, no longer wore Daenerys’ Hand emblem. The Unsullied, more loyal than Brienne, had no choice but to follow Tyrion’s guidance. “His fate,” Tyrion said, “is for our new king to decide. Or our queen.”

Another breeze washed through the silent group. A chair creaked. Edmure, sitting a few chairs away from Jaime, twitched as he opened his mouth. 

“I…” Jaime said, interrupting Edmure. All eyes fell on Jaime, Brienne’s most mortified of all. “I elect Sansa,” Jaime said with a smirk. 

Sansa, who sat on his right, gaped for a moment. She swallowed and clenched her hands in her lap. After a wince, Sansa shook her head and said, “I am not leaving the North.”

 _Well, all out of ideas._ Jaime shrugged and raised his eyebrows as Gilly’s partner, Sam Tarly, said, “Um, why just us?” he paused, a bit conflicted when everyone settled their gaze on him. Sam continued, “We represent all the great houses, but whomever we choose, they won’t just rule over lords and ladies. Maybe— the decision about what’s best made for everyone should be left to… everyone.”

Jaime scoffed a smile. _What a modern prick._ Jaime started to nod, but roars of laughter shot the young man down. 

“Maybe we should give the dogs a vote.”

“I’ll ask my horse.”

Jaime frowned. _I have bad news for you._

“Gendry is a Baratheon,” someone said.

Jaime considered it. He knew Brienne approved of him, though it was _because_ he resembled Renly. 

“Gendry is a bastard,” another chimed in.

Jaime sighed and glanced over. _He’s even more new at lordship than me._

“He is legitimized by Queen Daenerys.”

Jaime’s breathing cramped as the bickering continued.

“She burned King’s Landing?”

Letting out a sigh, Jaime bellowed, “Tyrion.” Everyone stopped. Jaime tapped his hand on the edge of his knee and said, “He’s already been ruling since Daenerys’ death.”

“The brother of the Wildfire Queen? And the Kingslayer?” a woman asked with scoffs.

“Careful,” Blackfish said.

Jaime shook his head, unafraid of her legitimate questions. “You’ll never meet a man who hated our sister more. Don’t let the throne be inherited anymore. Vote for the ruler, like the Night’s Watch.”

“Still conspiring,” someone said.

“No, _that_ will never end,” Jaime said, bursting their hopes and dreams. “Even more than a thousand years from now, it will happen again and again. But admit it, this world will be better with the best possible candidate. Who better than Tyrion? He has the most experience governing the realm and Hand of the King and Queen. He ruled for King Joffrey—”

“Killed King Joffrey,” someone said.

“He did not,” Sansa said. “The Tyrells were behind Joffrey’s death.”

_You're full of secrets._

“Look how far they’ve come,” Blackfish said.

Tyrion stepped forward and shook his head. “Jaime, no, I supported… this.” Tyrion spoke as if no one else were around them. He scowled so deeply Jaime saw his brother’s eyes fill with tears. Tyrion quieted and said, ”I can’t think of a worse choice.”

Jaime replied with a grimace. _I can’t think of a better choice. ___

__“I suppose you want it,” Edmure asked Jaime._ _

__Jaime straightened his back and sent a glare towards the man. _I will wear no crown._ “Not at all,” Jaime said, reaching out to rest his hand on Brienne’s forearm. “We’ve sworn our protection to Sansa, and that is where I stand. She already declined it, unless you haven’t used those things on the sides of your head called ears. I hope you’ve been enjoying what used to be _my_ home.”_ _

__Edmure winced as if he farted out the wrong hole. “Have you been enjoying mine?”_ _

__Jaime shrugged. “Yours is yours again, assuming we choose someone sympathetic to you. So far, it isn’t going very well for you, is it?”_ _

__Brienne gripped Jaime’s hand— a subtle reminder for him to shut up. Jaime inhaled a deep sigh while Davos cleared his throat and tapped his foot on the ground._ _

__“A learned man and Hand to two rulers,” Davos said, never moving his eyes from Tyrion. “He’s traveled to Essos. He’s made mistakes, but tell me which one of us hasn’t. I fought against Lord Tyrion at Blackwater. He outsmarted us. Cost me my son. I would still trust him as King. King’s Landing is hardly a landing, and it will take lifetimes to rebuild. Considering the circumstances, look how far he’s come. You want fairness, I think he’s got it. You want peace, I think he wants it more than any of us. To Tyrion of House Lannister, I say aye,” Davos said._ _

__“Aye,” Jaime said, lifting his chin._ _

__Brienne, Blackfish and several others agreed._ _

__Snuggled up in his wheelchair, Bran said, “Aye.”_ _

__Sansa’s brow slammed down into a tense frown. She pulled her shoulders back and met eyes with Tyrion. They shared a long gaze, until Sansa said, “The North will remain an independent kingdom, as it has been for thousands of years.”_ _

__Tyrion, now snapping his head to each person who elected him, clasped his hands together in a tight knot. When the reality dawned on him, his panicked eyes landed on Jaime. The brothers shared a nod, a germination of life growing through the ashes. Jaime knew his brother never expected any titles, and here he was, holding back swelling tears as Davos said, “All hail Tyrion, the Little Lion. The First of His Name. King of the Andals and the First Men. Lord of the Six Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”_ _

__Jaime stood in unison and said, “All hail Tyrion, the Little Lion.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I despise the GoT Dragonpit scene, because it was very unrealistic and rushed IMO. When given the choice of using exposition to describe the new ruler or a parallel Dragonpit scene, I picked the latter. Not that mine is better LOL. Clearly, Bran becoming the King isn't my favorite, and it was difficult deciding *who* gets it if it isn't Bran. In this AU, Tyrion was never arrested by the Unsullied (because he never helped Jaime escape) so IMO, Tyrion becoming the King would be plausible. Anyway, I want to know all your opinions, too! :) <3


	57. Chapter 57

It hurt to sail away from Tyrion— King Tyrion. Jaime’s brother had laughed himself sick before their ship sailed north. Lords and ladies went their separate ways, returning home. Jaime, Brienne, Sansa, Podrick, Galladon and almost all other Northerners joined their voyage back to the North— except Bran. Tyrion chose him as Hand of the King, and he accepted. Tyrion had offered to restore Jaime’s titles: Lord of Casterly Rock and Heir to House Lannister, but Jaime refused. _I gave up those titles when I married Brienne, before I even had those titles._ Instead, Jaime insisted he give Casterly Rock to Genna, if they could find her.

They left the King’s Landing storm of ashes and returned the North’s gloom of snow. Jaime hated the fucking North, but he loved his family. Brienne fretted about Galladon’s future. He bore the Lannister name, but she was the last surviving Tarth. Jaime reminded her they were nowhere close to either of their homes and houses because of an old, creaking oath.

Jaime tried not to think about it, but it was hard not to when Galladon started to interact with his surroundings. Due to winter storms, Galladon could only practice crawling indoors, in stuffy, smoke filled rooms. He inherited Brienne’s grimace, and it showed whenever they walked outside with him. _He hates it here, too._ Food was still scarce in the North, and Galladon tried to steal many bites of people's meals. Sansa, before her coronation, came over to offer him some of her lemon cake. Jaime held Galladon in his lap while Sansa inched forward, almost trembling while her reluctant hand stretched forward. Jaime smiled and watched while the pale yellow sugar plopped between his son’s lips. Galladon’s mouth closed and Sansa snatched her hand back, watching him roll the cake in his mouth with widening eyes.

Sansa’s coronation was like a sunny day compared to the years of snowing dread. She walked by kneeling lords and ladies, Jaime and Brienne included, and stood in front of her favorite etched, wooden chair. The maester placed her crown on her head, and as she sat down, Northerners and Brienne thrust their swords into the air while they chanted, “Queen in the North!”

_You will marry the Queen, but wear no crown. You will return home._

He was nowhere close to home. Every other piece of the prophecy had been fulfilled, but after living in the North for years, he felt no closer to enjoying it. He didn’t just want a _room_ with Brienne and Galladon, he wanted a house. He wanted to build sand castles with his son and have the ability to go outside without dozens of layers on. Jaime wanted to tan under the sun’s rays on his forehead and shave his beard without fear of losing his face. 

_I pray for better days to come_   
_I pray that I would see the sun_   
_Cuz life is so burdensome_   
_When every day’s a rainy one_

But all of those desires dwindled when the Wolf Queen formally called Brienne and her family to meet her in the Great Hall. Jaime’s hand flinched as he carried Galladon behind Brienne, Podrick walking beside him. Neither of them knew Sansa’s purpose, and the possibilities made Jaime’s phantom hand turn dizzy. They entered a fogged Great Hall, loud with smoke. Several seconds passed before Jaime recognized the room filled with dozens of ladies and lords from the North. _This isn’t good._ Jaime bounced Galladon in his arms as they walked through the center, approaching the seated Queen of the North. She sat in her wooden chair, in front of the fire. Sansa gave no smile, and gestured to Jaime and Podrick to sit near to the front. Jaime held Galladon closer, and the baby screeched like a hawk. Northern eyes grated against him while Jaime shhed and bounced the baby. Jaime glanced over to see Brienne standing in the middle, not sitting next to him. Jaime’s heart fell off a cliff, all while Brienne scowled and waited for Sansa to speak. _We’re going to war. Again. Brienne will fight. She’ll die. I can’t let her leave—_

“Kneel, Lady Brienne,” Queen Sansa said.

Brienne hesitated, scowling harder. Jaime tempted himself to rise, but Sansa lifted herself out of her chair and reached for a sheathed sword. Sansa’s awkward hands pulled out the sparking blade, turned to Brienne and said confidently, “Any queen can make a knight. Kneel, Lady Brienne.”

Brienne released a sweet sound— a gasp. Her chin tucked lower to her chest while her lips closed and quivered. Men and women around them stood and hairs lifted on the back of Jaime’s neck. Sansa held down her sword and stepped closer to Brienne— still standing and lost in her unbelievable daydream. Her eyes shot over to Jaime and Podrick. _You deserve this more than anyone._ Swollen and full, Jaime managed a small smile. Pod nodded.

Kneeling, Brienne looked down as Sansa approached. With a proud smirk, Sansa touched the edge of the blade to Brienne’s left shoulder. “In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave,” Sansa said. The sword moved to Brienne’s right shoulder. “In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just,” Queen Sansa said, lifting her chin higher as she alternated sides. “In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent.” Sansa placed the sword blade on Brienne’s right shoulder and said, “In the name of the Maid, I charge you to protect all women.”

Sansa lifted the metal, and Brienne’s eyes followed, swimming. After sharing a mutual smile, Sansa said, “Arise, Ser Brienne of Tarth.”

Brienne already surmounted everyone in the room, and stood taller than when she walked in. She bore a wide, singing grin while harmonious claps surged throughout the Great Hall. Unable to move, Jaime stared at his wife in awe. _She could conquer the world, if she wanted to. Instead, she’ll defend it._

Later that night, Jaime helped Galladon fall asleep after Brienne nursed him. As quiet as a flying owl, Jaime sneaked out of their room and closed the door. An odd sense of accomplishment tingled through him whenever he put Galladon to sleep successfully. Jaime let out a tense breath and turned to find Brienne, probably celebrating with Pod.

Instead, she found him, and she rushed through the hallway to their door. When she saw Jaime outside of their room, Brienne’s eyes widened and she said, “Jaime, you will never believe what—”

“I was just there, Ser Brienne of Tarth,” Jaime said, smirking up at her. “Or should I say... Ser Brienne Lannister?” Jaime’s eyes traveled down the length of her. She smiled, at least, and her armor shined in the flickering candlelight. Jaime opened his mouth to speak, and Brienne waited for him. Jaime narrowed his eyes and said, “I’ve never slept with a knight before.”

“Neither have I.”

Jaime laughed. She was smart, but never good at jokes. “Ouch, stop stabbing my heart.”

As usual, Brienne turned serious and emotional. “I wouldn’t have been here without you. I wouldn’t have Gal—”

“Don’t,” Jaime said, somewhat buying into her bid for a deep conversation. “Having Galladon would have been hard without my powerful loins but you would have rescued Sansa. I’m sure of it.”

Brienne managed a smile, and it continued to grow. Jaime had never seen her smile _so much._ “You’re truly happy, aren’t you?” Jaime asked.

Brienne’s eager face nodded.

Jaime smiled back and said, “I’ve never met a truer knight.”

She continued to burst, eyes flickering as her whole body jumped towards his. “Jaime.”

“What?” His smile soured.

“Sansa released me...from my oath.”

Jaime blinked. He raised his eyebrows and studied Brienne, whose smile resembled permanent stone. Now, he was speechless. She giggled, as if she just told him a scandalous secret— one she barely believed herself. Her body leaned forward, almost entrapping Jaime against Winterfell’s dreary walls. She appeared a younger woman, one full of relief and melodious eyes.

“We can leave as soon as we please. I would like time to say goodbye, of course. I’m worried about Pod,” she said, ending her rambling to look Jaime over. He continued to stare, furrowing his eyes at the mention of her squire. Brienne quieted and said, “He’s from the Westerlands. Or we can stop by King’s Landing to get your titles and lands reinstated—”

“You already have titles and lands,” Jaime said.

Brienne frowned and shook her head. “Yes, but—”

Jaime said, “Well, let’s go home.”


	58. Chapter 58

“Galladon,” Jaime warned.

The young toddler stumbled around, miraculously dodging masonry blocks littering the floor. His feet, covered in tiny leather shoes, pattered as he walked through bright shadows. He paid Jaime no attention.

_”Galladon,”_ Jaime said again, rushing forward to brace Galladon’s tiny shoulders— catching him right as he tipped over an iron chisel. The metal clanked, quieting the chirping birds for only a few seconds, and they returned to their blissful singing. Galladon’s blue eyes fell to the source of the noise and his insistent curiosity led him to crouch down in an attempt to pick it up. _Nope._ Jaime reached to pick up Galladon and hoisted him into his right arm. 

“I told you it wasn’t safe here for him,” Brienne said.

Jaime ignored his wife’s logic and pointed to the sky with his left hand. Galladon’s eyes followed, along with his left hand. His tiny, chubby finger pointed as he said, “Doo-bah.”

“Sky,” Jaime said. 

“Doo-bah.”

Jaime smiled and walked around the floor. It was a tiny room, no bigger than the White Sword Tower. It wasn’t complete, either. As a family, they stood in the tallest tower of Evenfall Hall on Tarth. Upon Jaime’s insistence, they moved to Tarth and settled in as Lord and Lady of Evenfall and Tarth. War had not missed the beautiful island of Tarth, and they had many places to repair. This project, however, was a guilty pleasure of Brienne: the Tower of the Red Wanderer.

“Where’s my chin?” Jaime asked Galladon.

Galladon’s eyes snapped over to Jaime’s clean shaven face and focused on his chin. Galladon smiled, full of eight teeth, and touched the edge of his index finger to Jaime’s chin. “Doo-bah,” he said.

_Everything is doo-bah._ Jaime shrugged his shoulder and gave a faint nod. “Close.”

Brienne stepped closer and pointed to the sky. “Galladon, look. There’s a wanderer. One of the seven moving stars.”

All three of them glanced up through the sea breeze, gazing into a cloudless sky. A small, pale white circle camouflaged itself. Jaime smirked and said, “Planet.” After Brienne sent him a frown, Jaime added, “And there are nine planets, depending who you talk to.”

Brienne intensified her look, and Jaime knew what she meant. _Careful. Sooner or later, Galladon will understand you._ Jaime gave a small nod and continued to gaze upwards. _I don’t understand myself half of the time._ To him, it was hard to believe the wars and battles had ended. Safe and protected on their island of Tarth, he had much more time to think. Since being thrust into the past, Jaime learned of different cultures, words, science (or lack thereof) and people. He entered the world as a drug addict and transformed into the Kingslayer— a larger monster than he was before. Here he was, a clean addict, still the Kingslayer, but a monster turned into a lion. He was a father, a lord and a husband. _No titles matter, so long as I’m happy._

Jaime offered Brienne a smile, and she grinned back. Since meeting her years ago, more freckles sprouted across her face. Time didn’t spare her, either, and a small wrinkle rested between her brows. _Probably from frowning at me too much._ Beside him, Brienne inhaled the spring, strawberry air. Soon, it would be summer, in climate and in their lives. _I’ve survived 300 weeks here. Time for many more._

“My Lord? My Lady?”

The three of them turned to see Podrick at the door, dressed in polished armor. “Yes, Ser Podrick?” Brienne asked. Jaime smiled at Podrick— still growing into his knighthood. Brienne knighted Podrick when he fought off several pirates on the shores of Tarth. When Brienne gave Podrick the choice to leave, both after leaving Winterfell and after knighting him, he chose to stay. 

“The smiths found the Dornish case of wine and…” Podrick’s voice trailed off, as if it was his fault the men were late and drinking themselves into a stupor. Jaime started to chuckle.

“Gods, it will take them hours,” Brienne said, “Take Galladon, see to it he has a good nap.” She glanced at Jaime, and they both nodded. Everything revolved around Galladon’s nap schedule. Brienne didn’t want to shoo her son away often, because she wanted him involved with as much of her daily activities as possible.

Podrick and Jaime met in the middle of the unfinished tower, with Brienne’s watchful eyes not far behind. Galladon’s eager arms reached for Podrick and they both smiled. Jaime sent Pod a look of thanks.

After Pod left with Galladon, Jaime looked over to Brienne. Even as a lady, she preferred to wear male garb. She trimmed her hair, never letting it fall below her ears— but Jaime loved that. Her broad hips still carried Oathkeeper: polished, sharpened and barely used. Occasionally, she still wore the armor he gifted her, and the thought of her drenched in sweat from sparring excited him. It took a lot of effort to distract her from her duties, and even though they were married, she preferred intimacy in privacy. Jaime, on the other hand, easily forgot about people or risks when he was inside of her.

He stepped closer to her, and she continued to gaze at scrolls of paperwork. Jaime stretched his hand out to snake around her waist— hoping to lure her into a flirtatious pause from work. She smiled. They had been trying for another pregnancy for months. The maester blamed Galladon’s lack of weaning. Neither of them were in any rush. Tarth needed many improvements. Everything, from marble mines, castle ruins named Morne, Evenfall Hall, ships— and repairs required leadership. Brienne flustered herself with so much responsibility, but with the right touch and the right smile, Jaime was always able to steal time away from her. He tried to help where he could, even if that meant distracting her.

Her eyes danced over to meet his, and she knew his intentions. If she wasn’t too stressed, she’d set the scrolls down, hoist him over to a corner, force his trousers down and ride him senselessly. She opened her mouth, and both of them heard Galladon’s piercing cry from the bottom of the tower. _Fuck._ The distraction weaved its way between them while they both debated whether to go down. After a few seconds, Galladon’s distant laughter floated up and both Brienne and Jaime looked relieved to hear it. 

_Don’t stop, I need it_   
_Release me, it’s too hard for me to hold_   
_My heart bleeding, your touch, it thrills me to the bone_

Jaime sighed and glanced around. He never would have dreamed to see this tower built. Even harder to believe was that he would marry the creator, someone he once wanted to harm when he met her. _That feeling was once mutual._ He had traveled almost all throughout Westeros, and now he considered _Tarth_ home. Brienne was no longer a creature in his mind— she was his warrior and as sweet as a plum. And Galladon was his light.

Jaime gave a small smile and asked, “Do you think Galladon will become a strong, brave knight?”

Brienne lifted her squinted eyes from her scrolls. “Both of his parents are. I do not see why not.”

Jaime averted his view away, holding back a grin. _If he’s anything like us, he’ll be as big as Duncan the Tall._ In an old world full of amazing knights, he knew the best one: Brienne. Jaime’s eyes drank her in. Soft wind blew through her hair. _I’m incredibly lucky to be here._ Considering every point he almost died, it felt like a miracle. And yet, a Jaime did die— one Jaime meant to replace. Jaime frowned. _I hope Jaime would be proud of me._ He focused on the end of his stump, mid-thought. _I’m proud of him._ The original Jaime helped save King’s Landing from wildfire— something Jaime couldn’t claim. He enjoyed claiming his place, but his thoughts never stopped reminding him of his true identity. Jaime said, “I’m not really a knight.”

Jaime could hear Brienne roll her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “You’ve done more than enough to be a knight.”

Sunlight started to trickle in through the unfinished walls and roof as the sun crept through the sky. Jaime shook his head in bright light and shrugged. “I’m not, and it’s—” Jaime shrugged. “—okay.” He got what he wanted: home. _You will return home._

Brienne dropped the scrolls and unsheathed Oathkeeper. Jaime’s eyes grew wide as she faced him, more like a blonde, freckled panther than the shy maiden he first met. “Kneel,” she said.

Phantom sugar spread over his tongue. _You can’t be serious._ Jaime winced, but her face maintained her command. After a swallow, Jaime’s body tensed as he slowly knelt down. He had never felt so… _vulnerable._ Jaime kept his head down, fixating on the crawling sunlight across the floor. The seriousness of the moment made him uncomfortable.

Brienne set the edge of Oathkeeper on his right shoulder, meeting his tunic. “In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave.”

Jaime released a quick smile, though she never saw it. He glanced up and said, “Brave enough to lose my other hand?”

Ignoring him, Brienne lifted her sword and kissed his other shoulder with it as she said, “In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just.”

“How often?” Jaime asked, wanting to get a rise out of her.

Her eyes sent him a quick look, and he imagined her voice: _Do you want to be knighted or not?_ Jaime licked his lips and turned his eyes towards her legs— impossibly long and distracting. 

She continued and said, “In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent.”

Jaime inched forward as Oathkeeper glittered in the sun. The sharp edge of metal dragged against his leather jerkin— but he didn’t care. Slowly, and still kneeling, Brienne stood within arms reach. Jaime stretched his left hand forward, inviting his own fingers to tug on her trouser laces. Brienne raised Oathkeeper and gave the blade wide enough berth to avoid caressing his face. Jaime’s eyes climbed up the length of her while she placed the sword against his left shoulder.

“In the name of the Maid,” she said, voice cracking, “I charge you to protect all women.”

Jaime smirked, and for a brief moment, she smirked back. _We’re almost done. Behave._

“Arise, Ser Jaime Lannister,” Brienne said.

“No,” Jaime said, yanking down her trousers. “I’m right where I want to be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thank you for reading! I also appreciate any kuddos, comments, subscriptions, etc. Follow me on tumblr for sneak peaks, updates and J/B appreciation. My tumblr is: Cytarabi
> 
> I am about halfway through re-editing The Gift. After I clean that fic up, I will add an epilogue chapter.
> 
> If you know my style already, I only work on one project at a time and I insist on completing it. Following The Gift 2nd edition, I have two fics on my horizon. The first work is a very unique JB short story about Jaime trying to find Brienne. The second work will be a Jamie/Brienne Crimson Peak AU.
> 
> Thanks again!


End file.
